


White Collar: An unofficial novel - part 4

by AltanKatt



Series: White Collar Unofficial Novel [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Anklet, Bromance, Cuffs, Episode Related, Episode: s01e09 Bad Judgment, Episode: s01e10 Vital Signs, Episode: s01e11 Home Invasion, FBI, Friendship, Gen, Novel, Prison, Stealing, Trust, White Collar as a novel, conman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 12:24:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 50,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20866196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltanKatt/pseuds/AltanKatt
Summary: This is the story of the tv series as a novel. The dialog follows the series, but there are also new scenes filling the gaps in the story. I wanted to capture the spirit of White Collar and the friendship between Peter and Neal. Part 4 starts with "Bad Judgement" and ends with "Home Invasion".In here you'll find Neal's "Hi, buddy" and declaring to Peter that he is the only one he trust.





	1. Playing the sympathy card

Neal had spent the weekend trying to find out where the music box was without success. That was the troublesome thing with Nazi loot. Once people realized they had bought plundered items from the losing side of a war, the items that were not returned were often hidden.

He had visited the Solomon R. Guggenheim museum to dispel his thoughts for a few hours. It had been relaxing but had not helped. The break had not made him see things in another light. He still did not know where the music box was.

On Monday he called Peter and said he would walk to the office and did not need to be picked up.

When he stepped into the elevator Peter was there, on his way up from the garage.

"Morning, Peter."

"Morning, Neal."

It was a warm day and Neal had his suit jacket over his arm. Shirt, vest, tie and hat, Neal was pretty certain it was formal enough for work. Besides, with four years in an orange jumpsuit behind him, he loved the wardrobe that came with the apartment. Even if he had been able to use his financial assets in the open, he would have bought suits, ties, and vests. And hats. Why did not everyone use hats?

"Good weekend?" he asked and the door opened to the 21st floor.

"Great!" Peter grinned. "New York won 4-3 in overtime. How was the Guggenheim?"

Peter had checked his anklet, no surprise there.

"Excellent!" Neal replied. "Saw a rumination on the physicality of space and the nature of sculpture." It had indeed been fine hours there.

"Glad I missed it," Peter said with a smirk.

"Back at you." How someone could prefer baseball to the magnificent experience of fine art and modern sculpture was beyond his understanding.

Jones met them.

"David Sullivan is waiting for you in the conference room."

Peter made a frustrated sound.

"Perfect."

"What's wrong?" Neal could not remember hearing anything about a 'David Sullivan', but on the other hand, he only had access to a minimal part of the cases the department was working on.

"He's been calling all week about a mortgage-fraud case," Peter explained. "It's a pretty cut-and-dry foreclosure. I don't know what else we can do for him."

Neal turned his head and saw a man and a child in the conference room.

"He brought his little girl," Jones said.

"Aw, jeez," Peter sighed and scanned through the glass wall too. "He's playing the sympathy card."

Neal did not move his eyes from his handler.

"Is it working?"

"Yep," Peter admitted and accepted the folder Jones was handing him. "Thanks," he added to Jones who left for other work.

"Let's go talk to him," his handler said with a gesture that indicated that he should come along.

"What, you need me for this?"

Peter nodded and Neal understood why his handler did not want to go alone on this one.

"You're uncomfortable around the 6-year-olds."

"I don't speak their language." That was true. Neal remembered Peter with the little girl Bai about two months ago.

"I do?"

"Yeah, you do, Peter Pan. Come on."

Neal followed Peter up the stairs to the conference room. Had he been out for only a little over four months? It felt like the four years in prison was a distant memory.

"Mr. Sullivan," Peter greeted the man, who rose on the other side of the table. "And this must be…"

"Allison," Sullivan filled in. The girl gave the two of them a glance and returned to her drawing.

"That's a five one five form, not a coloring book," Peter mumbled with a shocked voice.

"I'm sure the Bureau will get by without it," Neal broke in. He winked at the girl. "Encourage that artistic ability."

"What's going on, Mr. Sullivan?"

"The bank forecloses on our home in a week."

"Mr. Sullivan's father recently passed," Peter updated Neal.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Neal said to Mr. Sullivan who acknowledged with a nod.

"He left him his home," Peter continued. "And before his death, he took out a second mortgage on it."

"He didn't take out a second mortgage," the man protested. His eyes flickered between the two of them and finally settled on Neal. "He would never do that. Someone cheated us."

Neal who felt he was there only because of the presence of little Allison lowered his eyes and kept quiet.

"I looked at your case, Mr. Sullivan. I'm sorry, but things like this happen."

"Was your father in debt?" Neal asked.

"He wasn't in debt. I know him!"

"Do you?" Peter bounced back. "Last three years of his life, he was in an extended-care center. You only visited four times. I told you, I looked at your case."

Ouch, Neal thought. That man is thorough.

"Look…" Sullivan fought to find the right words. "My dad was a hard man. Near the end of his life, he wanted to know his granddaughter. She got us past our differences. He wanted to give her a home to grow up in. That's how I know my father wouldn't take out a second mortgage to play blackjack, okay. You're our last chance."

Neal glanced at Peter. He knew the man had the heart in the right spot, but that did not change the facts that the man's dad had taken a loan.

The little girl put her pens down the held out her drawing to Peter.

"That's you," she said.

A tree, a house, and a man in a striped sweater. Under it was 'Agent Burke' written in colorful letters. Poor Peter. His handler sighed.

"We'll look into it. No promises."

The girl smiled all over her face. Mr. Sullivan said his many thanks and Jones showed them out.

Peter handed him the file.

"Catch up on this and tell me if you see something I've missed. I'm going to make some phone calls."

For a second they remained where they were. Neal thought he could use the conference table and Peter would go to his office, but Peter did not.

"I thought you…" he began.

"Go to my office. You're a fast reader. I'll join you."

Neal sat down in Peter's office by the little extra table and flung his feet up and began to read.

"It's pretty cut and dry," he said as Peter came in and smacked his feet on the table as he passed. Neal took them down. "Bank has paperwork signed and notarized. I see why you didn't wanna take this on."

Peter sank down in his chair behind his desk.

"Maybe I'm glad I changed my mind."

"Find something?"

"Tried to call the N.Y.P.D. detective Sullivan spoke to originally."

"Yeah?"

"Turns out he's retired."

"So?"

"How many detectives you know retire at thirty-five?"

That was indeed unusual, Neal agreed.

"It's worth looking into. Think we should ask him for coffee?"

"I never say no to coffee."

Peter knew how to find people. At least those who did not deliberately tried to hide from the law. The same evening Neal and he sat at a diner waiting. They had chosen a table where they both had a clear view of the entrance and could be easily spotted by the man they were waiting for.

A man Peter recognized from a photo came in. He spotted them and walked straight to their table.

"Mr. Herrera, thanks for coming. I'm Agent Burke."

Herrera remained standing and pointed at Neal.

"Who's this?"

"I'm with the FBI," the kid answered after a second's hesitation.

"Um, no," Herrera said and sat down on the other side of the table and nodded in Peter's direction. "He's with the FBI. Fed couldn't afford those cuff-links."

Great, Peter thought. His convicted felon outmatched him in clothing. Why could not inherited clothes by definition look cheap?

"For a retired detective, you don't seem out of practice," Peter noted.

"You didn't answer my question," the former Detective shot back.

"He's my consultant," Peter said and hoped he did not have to explain it further, considering it seemed as Neal had more than the meager salary from the FBI at his disposal. "We're investigating the Sullivan case."

"Really? Why?"

Peter noted that Herrera seemed to remember it well, without a blink.

"Mr. Sullivan has a daughter," Neal said with his charm on, "and Peter's a sucker for kids."

Yeah, right, very funny, Neal, Peter thought.

"You know, you cleared over 90 percent of your cases," Peter said honestly impressed. "If you don't mind me asking, what made you turn in your resignation?"

"Well… I got tired of the grind," the man replied with a wide smile. A man so dedicated that he solves nine out of ten cases just do not get tired and leave, in Peter's experience.

"I swung an early pension. I don't know if you're recording this conversation. But I don't have anything to say. I appreciate the coffee."

Herrera rose and Peter and Neal exchanged a quick look. It seemed as they were both thinking the same thing.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Burned your career for this case. You're gonna walk away?"

"Like I said, I got nothing to say. Sullivan's a dud. Let it go. Thanks for the coffee."

He turned and took a few steps towards the door when he stopped. They watched his back, waiting. Then he returned to them.

"You know what? Let me leave a tip."

"Oh, I got it," Peter mumbled, dumbfounded.

"I insist. It's the least I can do."

Then he placed four dollar bills on the table and checked the coins in his hand carefully before he placed them on top of the bills. He gave them a nod each and left.

"That was cryptic," Neal said and counted the money. "Four dollars and seventy-six cents."

"For three cups of coffee." The tip for three cups of coffee.

"Pretty generous for a retired cop's salary."

"Very generous and very specific."

Neal nodded.

When Neal was picked up the next morning by Peter they discussed what those number could be. Peter had arranged for Herrera's case files to be transferred to his office. As soon as they arrived, they dug in.

"Four, seven, six. Could be an area code," Neal suggested, browsing through a random file.

"Not in America," Peter replied, reading another file.

"Badge number?"

"I don't think so."

"For a dud case, Herrera generated a lot of paperwork."

"Yeah, he did," Peter agreed. "Wait… What do we got here? Four, seventy-six." He smacked his hand on the paper he was holding.

"What is it?"

"It's an ID number for a federal district judge," Peter said handing over a few pages. "They stamp these on the files for every case you preside over."

In the corner was a stamp, 'U.S. District Court' and 'ID: 476' with a written signature.

"'Judge Michelle Clark'," Neal read from the paper.

"Do you know her?"

"No…" he had never heard about her, but… "Herrera said he was leaving a tip." He started to like the retired detective. Peter got the play with words too.

"Yeah. Maybe Her Honor's not so honorable."

"One cop already lost his job over this," he reminded Peter. "You sure you wanna go down this road?"

His handler glanced at the drawing from little Allison.

"Yeah, I do."

Neal could nothing but admire Special Agent Peter Burke. He fought for what was fair and right. Maybe he was too naive that it would always lead to good things and happy endings, but still, it was men like Peter who made the society worth fighting for.

"All right. Where do we start?"

"We need to work fast. David Sullivan has less than a week before they take his house. I put every agent on collecting information about her, see if we can find more cases like this, if she has done it before. You, you search on your side, see if you can pick up something."

"Sure thing, Peter."

When he arrived home that evening he found, as expected, Mozzie at his table doing his research.

"Hey."

Neal saw the box on the chair was labeled 'Caffrey', which meant it was one of the boxes with material Mozzie, as his lawyer, had gained access to. He dropped his hat and suit jacket over the back of a chair.

"Find anything on Judge Clark?"

"As your legal counsel, I advise you to peruse the following exhibits," Mozzie replied and placed two open files before him as he sat down by the table.

"Court orders… Search warrants…" All with his own name on them. "This is everything Fowler used when he arrested me for the diamond heist."

"Check out the fine print."

Mozzie pointed at a signature. It was Judge Michelle Clark's signature.

"She was Fowler's go-to judge while he was investigating you."

"What's her name doing on search warrants? Peter and I are working a mortgage-fraud scam." Neal knew as much that judges had their area of expertise and did not cross borders that easily.

"Warrants which, if they'd been reviewed by an impartial judge, may have been thrown out."

True, they had had nothing on him that would have granted a search warrant of his home. Thank God Peter had joined and made sure they did not 'found' anything they had brought with them.

"So Fowler's got a judge in his pocket," Neal smiled. "That's handy. Peter's gonna love this." Pure luck had brought them something to use against Fowler, too.

"Have I taught you nothing?" Moz protested.

"Fowler's got Kate. If his pet judge is dirty I can use it against him."

"You tell the Suit, he files a report and Fowler sees you coming. Secrets are safer," Moz pointed out. Well, no surprise there. Mozzie did not trust any authority and especially not one that had arrested his friend. Neal rose from the chair. He needed to think.

"And when you say, 'Fowler's got Kate—'" Moz continued.

"He does."

"What does the Suit think?"

There was no way he could tell Peter's opinion in a way that matched his own even the slightest.

"Your keeper and I actually agree on something," Moz said as he rose from his chair. "What if she's working with Fowler?"

"I need to talk to her. Then I'll know." If she did, he needed to figure it out on his own and not by other people's judgments. She was his love, not theirs.

"Do you trust your FBI buddy?"

Peter had spent the night with them once, drinking beer, or in Mozzie's case gin, and had shown nothing but respect and a form of admiration. And not arresting any of them, even though Mozzie had a stolen gold coin he was not supposed to have. It had made an impression on Mozzie, sure, but Peter was still a fed and as far as Neal could remember, Mozzie had never used Peter's first name.

"Yeah, I trust him," Neal replied. "Till I can't," he added, considering he was talking to Mozzie and he did not want to hear another lecture from him about who to trust.

"Vague… in a Zen kind of way…" Mozzie noted. "Look, he met with Kate. He must know how to get hold of her. Do you trust him enough to deliver a message?"


	2. The cable guy

"Her Honor, Judge Clark," Peter said and dropped a photo of a smiling woman in a judge's robes on Neal's desk. "How does this nice face get a detective to take an early pension?"

Neal took the photo and looked at it.

"She must have a lot of pull."

"Clark deals primarily in probate law. Her last case was—"

"The Sullivan house," the kid filled in as he got the photo from Peter.

"Look at these." Peter handed him a set of photos of various homes. "Nine properties over the past two years taken by various banks. She presided over all of them."

His phone rang and he dug in his pocket and glanced at the display before he pressed to answer.

"Hey, hon."

"Hey," El answered. "How would you like to come home for lunch?"

Surprise lunch with his wife.

"I'd like that a lot."

"Good. I'm trying out a new caterer for an upcoming event. I would love your opinion on the food."

It suddenly turned into something less than a safe bet.

"Oh, what's the menu?"

"Well, samplings of pates, couscous… a lot of fancy stuff."

Did not exactly sound like his favorite dish, but a lunch with El was still a lunch with El no matter what they ate.

"You know how much I love… stuff."

"And feel free to bring Neal."

"Oh, that's why you're calling," Peter got the picture and sent Neal an eye. "You wanna borrow him."

The kid did not even pretend to be reading the case file any longer.

"I wanna borrow his palate," El specified. "And yours as well."

"My wife's inviting you to lunch," he told Neal. "Good thing is I get to come along too."

Neal's eyes widened but he did not comment.

"Food's ready so if you can come right away, it would be great."

"Sure thing, hon. See you soon." He pocketed the phone and gestured for Neal. "Let's go."

In the car, the kid seemed thoughtful.

"Something troubling you?" Peter asked.

"I need to ask you about Kate."

"I told you everything," Peter returned, wanting to cut it short.

"You didn't tell me how you contacted her."

"I'm a fed. If I wanna find someone, I do." Some are easier than others.

"Can you get a message to her?"

Peter relaxed. He was afraid Neal would ask him to arrange a meeting between Neal and Kate. He was cloven to that idea. And Kate knew how to contact Neal if she wanted to. Or could, if Neal's theory was right.

"I can try. What do you wanna say?"

"Tell her I'm starting to wonder if the bottle really did mean goodbye."

Peter glanced at Neal. It was a justified question, considering she had called Neal twice that he knew of and stirred up a mess.

"Neal, if I knew where to find her, I would tell you, okay?"

"Okay."

"Last time, I used informal CI:s and spread the word that I wanted to see her. I didn't know if she would turn up and I don't know where she stays. I'll do the same again, see what comes back, okay?"

"Okay. Why did your wife want to 'borrow me' for lunch?"

"She's testing a new catering firm. Seem to think that a conman is needed to tell if the food is good or not. I mean, how bad can it be?"

Neal followed Peter up the stairs and through the front door of the Burke's.

"Hey, honey," Peter said and took off his coat.

"Hey, Elizabeth. Thanks for the invite," Neal said and walked up to the table. "Foie gras". Elisabeth had a good taste for that little extra that was needed to impress.

"Yeah, I have a lot of it," Elizabeth smiled with a pad and a pen ready. "I want you guys to try this one first." She pointed at one set of small toast with foie gras on top.

"Looks great," Peter said and grabbed one and stuffed it all into his mouth.

"Okay…" Neal mumbled when he saw him and took a piece as well.

"I haven't had time to try them, but they look good."

Neal took a bite and watched Peter realize what he had in his mouth. A sound came from him that indicated that he wanted to spit it out but was too polite to do so.

"Oh, yeah. Delicious," his handler managed to say.

Elizabeth frowned and sighed.

"Okay, that's why I wanted to invite Neal."

"Why? Because he's a good liar?"

"No, because he appreciates fine cuisine."

"Which this is not," Neal returned with the honest feedback he knew El wanted. "No one could lie that well."

"Ooh. Yeah, that does smell bad," Elizabeth said after a closer look at a piece from the plate. "Thank God you guys tried it first. Okay, this caterer's off my list."

"Who was the other unfortunate guinea pig?" Peter asked.

"No one."

"Then why are there two coffee cups on the table?"

"Oh, I made coffee for the cable guy. It went out this morning, so he came by to fix it."

"They got someone out here fast," Neal noted, frowning. He did not like this.

"When did you call them?" Peter wanted to know.

"Actually, they called me. They accidentally cut a power line."

Neal felt a chill go through his body. He glanced at Peter and wondered if he heard the same as he. Peter sent him a look.

"They were fixing the cable, so they sent someone," Elisabeth continued, oblivious of their looks. "I thought it was a little strange too, but I asked the neighbors, and their cable went out as well. Why? What's wrong?"

Peter had picked up their home phone and pressed redial on the last number calling in. 'The number you have dialed is not in—' He hung up and took El's notepad and wrote 'Bug!' on it. Neal nodded. Peter gestured for them to keep talking and Neal sat down by Elizabeth while Peter began searching for bugs.

"So where's the gala your new client's hosting?" Neal asked.

"It… It's at the Met… It's next week…" Elizabeth answered, distracted, pale.

"I love the Met. They have this fantastic Matisse I've always admired," Neal went on and decided to do most of the talking on his own. "It's on the second floor. Right near the fire exit." Yes, he had considered stealing it more than once.

Peter had found a bug in the DVD-player. He held it up and Neal wrote 'What now?' on Elizabeth's pad.

"Now?" Peter asked, jaws tense. "Now I am pissed off," he said to whoever was listening, placed the device on the floor and jammed his heal into it, smashing it.

They put on their coats and walked outside. They sat in silence, waiting for their emotions to cool off. One thing Peter was frustrated about was right in front of him.

"You suspected something the moment she mentioned the cable guy," he confronted Neal. "What aren't you telling me? Is it Fowler?"

"I don't wanna talk about it here," Neal replied. To his credit he did not dodge the question, just asked for another location.

"And there could be more inside?" Elizabeth whimpered.

"I'll take care of it," Peter assured her.

"You can't go through the normal channels," Neal pointed out. "OPR has too much reach inside the Bureau."

The kid was right. Peter sighed.

"What do you suggest?"

"I know a cleaning guy. Does a great job on my place."

Peter could only think of one the Neal could be talking about and he was not about to let him inside his house.

"No way. Not him."

"Honey, we have to put a stop to this."

Yeah, she was right. But he did not now anyone he trusted with the job. But he trusted Neal enough.

"All right, call your guy," Peter decided. "But I want someone I can trust watching him, in case he—" What could he do? Everything and nothing. "Whatever he does."

"In case he… case he what?" El asked.

"He's… odd."

"In a good way," the kid told El, in an effort to calm her, most likely,

"Who is this guy?"

Neal gave him a look.

"Call him," Peter nodded. The kid brought out his phone.

"Hi Moz, I'm gonna ask you a favor. Peter has a bug-problem. And I figured you could fix it… Yes, 'the Suit'… Okay, thanks."

The kid pocketed the phone again.

"Well?"

"He'll be here in twenty."

"Alright, I'd better call Jones right away, see if he can keep an eye on your guy."

At the same time as Peter called, Satchmo came and indicated he wanted for a walk. Elizabeth looked like a wreck and Peter was on the phone.

"I can take him," Neal offered and Peter sent him a grateful smile. He did have the heart in the right place.

"Hey, Jones, can you come by my home. I'm using Neal's friend to get rid of a bug-problem, and I hoped you could keep an eye on him while he works."

Jones answered that he would be there as soon as he could and then he and El just sat in their garden waiting, holding hands for comfort. It was not easy to be married to a federal agent. And it was not easy to be one and involuntarily drag the ones you love into the mess.

It was not without that Peter asked himself if this would have happened if he had not had Neal around. No, not this particular situation, but the work as such had its risks. And Neal was a great asset for the Bureau. And a friend of his. And the bug was not Neal's doing. He was just involved in a peculiar mess that he had not asked for. That Peter somehow became a part of when he accepted Neal's offer to help.

There was a knock on the door and they both rose and walked inside. Before they reached the door there was a second knock. El opened, with Peter close behind.

The little fellow first looked at Peter and then let his eyes pass to his wife. He beamed at her.

"Mrs. Suit, I take it."

"Honey, this is—" Peter began, but the little fellow interrupted.

"The cleaner."

"What, are you selling vacuums?" El asked.

"I do not take your assumption as an affront but as vindication of my ability to blend in."

And with those words, he passed them both and walked inside. He placed his little suitcase on the sofa-table and opened it.

"So, what are you doing?" El asked.

"He's taking care of our bug problem," Peter told her to stop the guy from some weird explanation. His eyes fell on the contents of the strange man's luggage.

"Is that a night-vision spotting scope?" he asked.

"Oh, fifty dollars. Russian military surplus."

"Why do you have it?"

"Oh, the real question is, why don't you?"

The man picked out a box and pulled out an antenna and seemed to go to work right away.

"Well, in any case, we really appreciate your help," El said.

There was a knock on the door again and Peter let Jones inside.

"Hey, Jones."

"Hey."

The man dried his feet before stepping inside.

"Thanks for coming."

"Yeah."

"All right, listen, that's him." There was no need in pointing. Neal's friend may pride himself for blending in, but he sure stood out in their living room. "Make sure Elizabeth is safe."

"You got it," Jones confirmed. Considering that Jones had tried to follow this fellow four months ago, when Neal's situation was new, and he always lost the trail, Peter figured Jones would actually enjoy this afternoon.

The back door opened and Neal returned with Satchmo.

"Hey, Moz."

The odd fellow replied by scanning his friend with the antenna.

"Clean."

The kid gave him an odd look and handed the dog's leach to El.

"Thanks, Neal, for walking Satch."

"Yeah, anytime."

"So you're sure he won't try anything?" El asked Neal. Peter stared at the guy tasting the catering food left on the table.

"Do you have any rare paintings or coins?" the kid asked.

"No."

"Then you'll be okay."

"Is this Gorham silverware?" they heard the guy's voice from the kitchen. "It's rather unique."

"Maybe you should keep an eye on him," Neal rephrased himself.

"Yeah," El nodded.

"Oh, a Baccarat vase," came from the kitchen. Peter did not know if the little fellow just provoked a federal agent to amuse himself or what. He turned to Jones who seemed to fight to not burst out into laughing and walked into the kitchen to keep an eye on their strange guest.

"I don't know what case you guys are working on, but wrap it up fast," El urged and handed him his coat. "Come on, Satch." She left and he was alone with Neal. He put his coat on.

"Think he'll be okay here?" Peter asked Neal.

"Okay, I don't think he bugged the dog," El's voice came from the kitchen.

"Amateur."

"I don't wanna stick around to find out," Neal said.

"Me either," Peter grinned and opened the front door. "Besides, you have some explaining to do."

Neal nodded and left the house. Rain was in the air. Peter grabbed two umbrellas and left.

Peter handed him an umbrella and they walked towards the office.

"So, tell me what you didn't want to tell me back there," his handler requested.

"When I got home yesterday, Mozzie showed me that it was Judge Clark that had signed the papers in need of a judge approval for Fowler to arrest me for the jewelry heist. Warrants that never would have been signed by an impartial judge."

Peter stopped and opened his umbrella because it had begun to rain. Neal did the same, though a hat made him in less need of it. But it had been a thoughtful gesture of Peter to bring two.

"So by accident, we seem to have stumbled upon Fowler," Peter concluded.

"Yeah."

"Fowler was trying to protect his judge for Operation Mentor. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was getting to it," Neal said. He had had no intention to keep it from Peter in the long run.

"He knows I pulled our detective's file."

"He realizes you're on his trail, he comes after you."

"Us," Peter corrected him. "Comes after us." Yeah. Fowler had already shown that alright, Neal thought.

"Maybe we can get to him first through Judge Clark," Neal suggested.

"This thing Fowler wants from you, the music box, it better play one catchy tune."

"It's worth it," he assured Peter. It was not just the music box. They would nail people who set people up and did what they wanted. Fowler had arrested him on false grounds and bugged Peter's home twice.

"Why are guys like you interested in antiques with a dangerous history?" Peter wanted to know.

That was easy to answer.

"Because they have a lasting impact. Look at how they're affecting us."

"Unbelievable," Peter muttered. "We are about to go after a federal judge."

"It's worth it to take down Fowler."

Peter stopped and sighed.

"Okay. We stop the judge from taking the Sullivan home," Peter said. "Then we get her disrobed."

Neal raised his eyebrows at the choice of word.

"You know what I meant," Peter chuffed. "If we lean on her hard enough, she'll flip on Fowler."

Neal fought to keep from laughing.

"You know what I meant," Peter sighed but Neal continued to walk. "That's not what I meant!"

Peter caught up with him.

"One more thing, Neal… You said you 'were getting to it', to tell me."

"I was."

Peter stopped in front of him.

"You had the whole morning and you told me nothing about this. We work as a team, Neal. I need to know why you didn't tell me right away."

Neal considered the right words. He wanted to explain, without sounding as if he did not do his job properly.

"When things become official subjects at the Bureau, people have access, and then things happen that I… can't prepare for."

"You feel you lose control?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded.

"Yeah."

"The Bureau is a legal authority and we need to keep things correct and documented," Peter explained.

"I know that, Peter. And since I've gone through that legal system myself I too think it's important that you do… what you do. But Fowler is within the Bureau. I just wasn't sure if it was a good thing to make Mozzie's findings official Bureau documents."

Neal watched Peter for a reaction. At least he did not seem angry.

"I get what you mean," Peter said, "but you should leave that call to me. If we work on a case you can't keep information from me. Understand?"

Neal nodded.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"But you cannot promise me?"

"Peter, I take promises seriously. I can only promise you to do my best to keep it in mind. And promise you that I'll do the best I can when I work on a case with you."

"Guess I'll have to be satisfied with that for now."

"You'll better be."

"Oh, attitude."

"Yeah. It's called honesty."

They both laughed. Neal was not sure if they found the same thing funny, but it did not matter. They had fun together.


	3. Signature

When they got back to the office an agent that just joined them on the White Collar division met them. Or rather met Peter.

"I got those files you requested on Judge Clark," he informed Peter.

Neal saw two agents push carts with three boxes each into the conference room.

"Good job, Price. Get the crew together. We are gonna pore over everything discover any discrepancies on every deed and foreclosure notice we've got starting with the Sullivan home."

"Okay."

Neal heard the ping from the elevator doors and turned. Speak of the Devil, he thought.

"What is it?" Peter asked who saw his focus had shifted.

Neal nodded in the direction of the approaching group and Peter turned to see for himself. Just to stand face to face with Garrett Fowler.

"Good to see you again, Agent Burke."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm working on a project in New York."

He seemed to have a constant smirk on his face.

"Operation Mentor?" Peter asked.

"I can't comment on that," he replied and the smile was gone. "In fact, I would say you're not supposed to know it even exists."

"You can pin this one on me," Neal grinned at Fowler. "You like pinning things on me, right?" He was glad he had told Peter everything that happened that night in the hotel room. It had felt as the right thing to do, when Peter knew they had met and all, but now he showed Fowler that Peter knew too.

"Agent Fowler," Reece called from the bullpen outside his office. "Received your request this morning. We'll set you up in one of our offices."

"You're working out of here?"

"Oh, relax, Burke. Just borrowing your phones for a little while." It was something utterly teasing in his voice. No matter the reason for him working in their office, he sure loved to tease Peter.

Peter knew it was part of the work to scan through seemingly endless piles of documents in the search of evidence, but it was a part of the job that he hated. It was just browsing, reading, searching, like a needle in a loft of filled with hay. He wanted a puzzle to solve.

They had sat in the conference room, eight people, going through the boxes of files, the whole afternoon.

"All right, everyone, take five," Peter said. "We'll reconvene later."

He rose with the others and moved to his office. In the doorway, he realized that Neal had remained where he was, still working. Peter glanced at him. The kid did not seem willing to take a break.

"You got something?"

"Maybe," Neal replied and Peter returned to the table.

"Sullivan's father, Michael, signed the original mortgage in November of 1962." Neal handed him the papers as he sat down. "This is his signature on the second mortgage he supposedly took out."

"'Supposedly'"? Peter repeated.

"Yeah. There is a mild hesitation mark in the loop of the L."

Neal pointed at the differences but as far as Peter could tell it was a normal difference between two signatures made decades apart.

"It's a forgery," the kid sad with certainty.

"You're sure?"

Neal gave him a nod.

"Forging a signature is all about confidence." He saw a pad on the table and grabbed it and a pen and handed it to him. "Here. Sign this."

Peter wrote his signature on the paper, curious about what Neal would show him. The kid took the pen and without turning the pad around, wrote the same signature below his. Peter was impressed. Not only by what his talented conman could do but that he dared to show an FBI agent his skills. Peter grinned all over his face.

"How'd you do that?"

"Well, your hand is programmed to write letters a certain way. You try to mimic someone else's, and your own style will creep in," Neal explained. "But turn the signature upside down, and it becomes nothing more than a drawing. All you have to do is copy the lines. Your preconceptions about letters go away. You have a perfect signature."

"That's a neat trick," Peter admitted. "Don't copy mine again."

"Never again," Neal agreed.

"You have copied my signature?"

"Let's focus on the crime at hand."

Peter considered if he should pry further. He was pretty sure Neal dodged even when there was no need, just to not make a dodge an obvious answer in itself.

"Hey, guys," Fowler said, standing in the doorway. "What are you doing?"

"You need something, Fowler?" Peter asked.

Fowler made a face and tried to appear superior, but Peter was not intimidated. After a few seconds of silence, the man from the OPR turned and left.

"I'm gonna get clearance from the Bureau to talk to our judge," he told Neal.

"You need clearance?"

"To talk to a federal judge? Yeah." It was sensitive to mix in a judge in an investigation. They were supposed to be objective and unaffected and all. Peter rose.

"And you're gonna stay here. Last time you were in a judge's chamber, you jumped out the window." And it would be far less complicated to get the clearance if he did not bring a convicted felon along.

"All right, everyone, take five," Peter declared. "We'll reconvene later."

Neal noted the others leave but he was not interested. Not now when it started to become interesting. He had search through plenty of material to find what he was looking for and now he was sure.

"You got something?" Peter asked.

"Maybe."

Neal saw the energy return to Peter's tired eyes.

"Sullivan's father, Michael, signed the original mortgage in November of 1962." He showed Peter the documents. "This is his signature on the second mortgage he supposedly took out." He showed him the other document.

"'Supposedly'"? Peter gave him a glance. Neal returned that look with confidence.

"Yeah. There's a mild hesitation mark in the loop of the L. It's a forgery."

"You're sure?"

Yes, Neal was sure. The signature and the whole situation, it made sense it was a forgery.

"Forging a signature is all about confidence," he began and saw a pad on the table. He would make Peter understand. He took the pad and a pen. "Here. Sign this."

Peter wrote his signature on the paper without hesitation. Neal took the pen when Peter put it down and mimicked Peter's signature writing upside down. His handler stared and then grinned, impressed.

"How'd you do that?"

"Well, your hand is programmed to write letters a certain way. You try to mimic someone else's, and your own style will creep in," Neal told his friend. "But turn the signature upside down, and it becomes nothing more than a drawing. All you have to do is copy the lines. Your preconceptions about letters go away. You have a perfect signature." It took some skill and practice to copy a drawing too, but it was different than a signature.

"That's a neat trick," the FBI agent admitted. "Don't copy mine again."

"Never again."

"You have copied my signature," Peter said and it sounded very much like a statement, more than a question.

Neal had never had the need but there was a time where he would not have thought twice to do so if needed.

"Let's focus on the crime at hand," he replied, keeping the mystery.

"Hey, guys," Fowler said, turning up in the doorway. "What are you doing?"

Neal looked at Peter.

"You need something, Fowler?" Peter returned as Neal looked out through the window. When he heard the man leaving the room Neal turned his head and saw Fowler's back. Could the man act more suspiciously? Was he so sure that he had the upper hand?

"I'm gonna get clearance from the Bureau to talk to our judge," his handler said.

Neal stared in surprise.

"You need clearance?" Was it not a free country where you could talk to anyone you pleased?

"To talk to a federal judge? Yeah." Peter rose. "And you're gonna stay here. Last time you were in a judge's chamber, you jumped out the window."

I was innocent, Neal thought as he held up his hands, and watched Peter leave to his office.

Peter got the clearance within an hour and got an appointment booked the same day. It was late, but Peter wanted to get things moving as quickly as possible. The Sullivan family had a hard deadline and so did he.

"Agent Peter Burke is here to see you," the Judge's secretary said as she showed him inside the office.

The woman on the other side of the desk rose and held out her hand.

"Judge Clark," Peter greeted her and shook her hand. "Thank you for taking the time to see me."

"Please have a seat. How can I help you?"

Peter sat down in the leather-clad visitor's chair that turned out to be comfortable.

"I'm here investigating a foreclosure dispute filed by a Mr. David Sullivan. You were the judge overseeing Sullivan's estate."

The Judged frowned.

"I'm sorry, I don't seem to recall that case."

Peter gave her a copy of the mortgage papers.

"Maybe these will refresh your memory."

She browsed them and nodded in recognition.

"I thought this case was settled."

"It was," Peter nodded. "By you. But we found some discrepancies in the signatures."

"Discrepancies?"

"Forgeries. Enough for me to reopen the case."

Peter studied the judge carefully.

"Good luck, Agent Burke. Handwriting analysis won't have enough weight to restart the investigation." True enough, Peter knew that. She handed the paper's back to him.

"You got more than this?"

"I've got you," Peter said as he took the papers. She froze, staring at him, still holding her end of the papers. He locked her with his eyes.

"Nine suspicious foreclosures and you're the common denominator."

She did not blink once. She let go of the papers and leaned back, watching the wall beside her for a second.

"What sort of salary does an FBI agent make?"

Peter blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm curious." Her eyes met his. "An agent of your stature. A-hundred-and-forty a year at the most?"

Peter knew he was out on deep waters here. He could not accept a bribe under any circumstances. She, on the other hand, was not supposed to offer one. He had no recording equipment, he was not wired. He was only there to rattle her a little. She had taken the bate alright but not in the way he had thought she would.

"Why do you ask?"

"It's a shame you don't make enough for what you do, with the services you provide, the risks you take. You deserve double that."

"What are you proposing?"

"Nothing," she replied all smiling, all innocent. "I'm simply suggesting that you should make a lot more money for the work that you're doing. Or not doing, for that matter," she added and sent him a stern look. "I think you deserve a bonus, Agent Burke."

So far she had not said anything about a bribe. She had hinted but that was not enough. If she offered him a bribe up front he would have the right to arrest her on the spot.

"What kind of bonus are we talking?"

"Quarter of a million. Does that interest you?"

Smart. She forced him to make the move that put him a compromised position.

"It might," he answered, careful not to cross the line, only hover close to it. Too close, but it was too tempting to frame her than to outright say 'no' as he should, and would in any other situation.

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation next week somewhere less official."

"Perhaps we can."

Judge Clark rose from her seat and offered him her hand again.

"Good luck on your case. I hope you don't run into a wall."

Peter shook her hand.

"We'll be in touch."

"Okay."

He turned and left. Judge Clark was dirtier than he had figured. She had offered him two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollar without hesitation. She must have a lot more assets than that if she gave that much away without blinking.


	4. Night shift

Neal was quick to get to his feet when he returned to the office. He had waited for him, though it was late.

"Hey. Miss anything good?"

"She offered me a bribe," Peter told him with a grin on his way back to his room.

"Really? How much are you worth?"

"Quarter million."

"That's it?" The kid sounded disappointed.

"Yeah."

"If I'd known you were that cheap, I would've bribed you myself," Neal muttered.

Peter stopped and faced him.

"No amount of money would've been as satisfying as catching you the first time. Or the second."

"No one likes a bragger."

Peter shrugged. It was the truth, pure and simple.

"So we have ourselves a dirty judge," Neal concluded.

"I think we do. I'll put in a request with Hughes to authorize a sting."

Peter turned his head and glanced into Hughes' office where Fowler sat at the moment. The man produced his cell phone and answered a call. The judge they were about to nail for this case was the person Fowler had turned to get the warrants needed to arrest Neal. Was it too much to hope for to get them both at the same time? Not only for Neal's sake but for the whole Bureau. Whatever Fowler was doing it felt dirty beyond any rime or reason.

When Peter came home he heard voices from upstairs.

"I used to work as an assistant manager at an art gallery. There was a theft, and Peter was the lead investigator," he heard El say.

"You were a suspect?" Jones asked.

"I was a witness. But he wanted to know if I had a boyfriend."

"More like add you to the list of corporate, government…" the Mozzie-guy's voice added and then changed the tone. "I mean, how charming."

Peter grinned. He guessed the little man got a look from El. He started to walk upstairs.

"He kept droning on about this Italian restaurant but didn't have the courage to ask me out. So I, well, I gave him a hint."

She had given him a hint alright, Peter remembered. Holding up a sign saying 'I love Italian' for him when he had kept her under surveillance.

"Misappropriating FBI resources to follow a girl," Mozzie said. Did El really show them the photos he took of her then, before they started dating, before he had the courage to ask her out? They must have been in a box somewhere in a closet!

"It's been known to happen," Jones said.

"The Suit is sly."

"He's a bit of a bad boy," El agreed and then Peter turned the corner. The closet was open and the box with the photos out. Jones looked like he was about to burst out laughing.

"What's going on here?" Peter asked and placed his hands on his hips to add authority to the room. It was after all his house.

"Oh, we were just wrapping up for the night," the little man said and put the photos back in the box.

"'We,' huh? What are you, a team now?" He glanced at El who had a wide grin on her face. "Will you be finishing up soon?"

"Oh, I'll need a few more days," Mozzie replied to his dismay. "The downstairs is clear, but the upstairs is still a potential minefield."

The man collected his equipment.

"So you're telling us that we shouldn't sleep in our own bedroom?"

"Do either of you talk in your sleep?"

"He does," El said at the same time that he answered 'no'. Peter stared. Did he talk in his sleep? Mozzie walked passed him and Jones.

"Jones, drive him home."

Mozzie turned.

"Oh, nice try, Suit. Nice try, Haversham out." He walked down the stairs. Of course, the guy would react like that. Actually, Peter had just intended to be polite. He had not considered that the little guy did not want to know where he lived.

"Don't forget the pâté," El called after him. What? Did she like this weird guy?

"Already packed," they heard his reply on his way down.

"He do anything suspicious?" He turned to Jones who collected his features and became serious.

"More amusing than anything else."

"Thanks, Jones. Get some rest."

"Yeah," he nodded and after El and he said goodnight to each other, he walked downstairs too.

"So where are we gonna sleep tonight?" his wife approached and pulled his tie. Peter saw the old sleeping-bags and the other camping gear that had been pulled out of some closet in the search for bugs. She saw his glance and smiled. They carried it downstairs to the living room and arranged them on the floor.

They lay down to test if it would work.

"Who says you can't camp in New York City?" she said looking up in their ceiling as she was looking up to the stars. He loved her so much. And this, as odd as it were, felt romantic.

"I owe you for this, El."

"Well, you can start with dinner."

"Saturday night? Italian?"

"It's a date," she confirmed. He rolled over to kiss her but as their noses touched there was a knock on the door.

"Ugh," Peter huffed and got to his feet. "It is like Grand Central in here."

He opened the door and stared at his boss.

"Hughes. Come on in."

"Hello, Peter. Evening, Elizabeth."

"Hello, Reese." El smiled at him from down the floor.

"What, you're camping?"

"Long story. What's wrong?" Something was wrong. Just Hughes appearance by their doorstep was reason enough to draw that conclusion.

Hughes did not reply. He looked at El.

"I need to speak to Peter."

"Of course." She rose and left for the kitchen without a question.

"Thanks, hon."

When he and his boss was alone, Hughes sighed deeply.

"I'm not here in an official capacity. I'm here as your friend. OPR has launched an investigation into you."

"Why?"

"Did you take a bribe from a judge?"

Now it was Peter's turn to sigh. Why was he surprised? Why had he not considered that this would fall back on him someway? He knew that Fowler and Judge Clark had businesses together.

"I spoke with Judge Clark."

"Did she offer you money?"

"Yes."

"Did you say no?"

No, he had not said no. He had said 'maybe'. And that was too far from a 'no' for any investigation.

"I went to her office, told her about our investigation and she responded with a bribe. I wanted to play it out, see where it led." Now it felt like a stupid move. "You'd have done the same thing," he added. It was not that strange if you wanted to trap someone.

"Maybe," Hughes said and gave Peter a stern look. "OPR's got you on videotape. Fowler's presenting it tomorrow morning."

Now the 'maybe' he had said would be too much of a yes. And even if he had written a request to authorized a sting it was not yet signed by Hughes. Since his boss had gone home for the day when Peter got back, the damn paper was still on his own desk. It would not be worth much.

"I can't protect you, Peter," his boss said frankly. No, he could not. And Peter did not blame him. Hughes looked like he was about to say that he was sorry for it, but did not. He just turned and left.

"This is serious, isn't it?" El said, turning up from the kitchen.

"Yeah," Peter said, thinking about what had just happened. "Hughes could lose his job for what he just told me."

"This guy, Fowler, he's not gonna stop?"

"No. I'll fix it."

"How?"

"He's got me on tape." How on earth was he about to do something about that? He grabbed his jacket. "Honey, I… I've gotta go."

"Don't apologize."

They kissed and Peter left. The only thing he could think of was going to the office. Whatever could be fixed, it could be fixed from there. As he drove he realized he had to find the connection between Judge Clark and Fowler before Fowler presented his tape. He had to prove that Fowler had a reason to stop Peter from investigating the judge.

Back in the office, he got to work. In less than an hour, he grabbed for his coffee mug and found it empty, naturally. He rose and stopped in the bullpen outside his door. The office was deserted. And the coffee pot empty. To his shame, he realized he had never put on coffee for his colleagues. It had always been ready for him.

Alright, Peter thought. How hard can it be? I caught Neal Caffrey. I can put on some coffee too.

He heard the door to the office open and he left the kitchenette. Jones walked through the door and sent him a grand smile.

"What are you doing here?" Peter asked.

"Catching up on work."

"You heard about the OPR investigation."

"Yeah, well, it might've gotten around. With all that's going on, I figured you could use some extra hands."

Solid, loyal Jones. Peter smiled.

"Thanks, Jones."

Peter still held the coffee pot in his hand.

"Just gonna make a fresh pot." Still not knowing how to do it.

Jones grinned.

"Let me help you out."

"Thanks."

They walked into the kitchenette and Jones pulled out a drawer and brought out a bag labeled 'coffee'.

"We might wanna put on more than one," Jones pointed out. Peter was just about to ask when he heard the elevator ping and the door open again. Into the office walked six more members of his team. At that moment, Peter knew that even if Fowler took him down, his team believed in him, thought that he was worth fighting for. This would be one of the best moments in his career, no matter outcome.

"Alright… Thank you for coming, everyone. Let's gather in the conference room."

Soon the table was covered in laptops and paper and coffee cups.

"All nine of Judge Clark's suspicious foreclosures has the same criteria," Peter told the team as he walked along the table. "The target is a recently deceased elderly person who's lost contact with the family, primarily middle class."

"What about the banks and loan officers?" Jones asked.

"Different in every case. Judge is the only constant. These cases originally came to her court as standard estate litigation. She's been in a perfect position to scout out the weaker families. Since the families are estranged they have to assume that the additional mortgages are legit. Even if they didn't, they wouldn't have enough money to fight the banks."

"Either the family pays, or they lose everything." Jones sounded horrified with every right. These were crimes with victims losing their homes. Innocent people who never saw it coming. All by a criminal driven by greed.

"The average price tag of a bogus loan is three-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollars."

"So where does the money go?" Jones asked.

"That's the question. David Sullivan's foreclosure is still in progress. So let's follow the money."

The team started to work. It was way past midnight. No one complained. Until there came mutterings and questions from them all at once.

"What?" Peter asked.

"Someone just sealed the judge's files," Jones said. "What now?"

So they were on to something. Too close for someone's comfort. Peter grinned.

"We go back to the source."

Neal sat by his dining room table with Mozzie trying to solve a puzzle. The Kate puzzle. The puzzle with Kate and Fowler and a Music box he did not have but everybody seemed to think he did.

"Last clue I had led me to Seville, and then nothing," he told Mozzie who was enjoying one of Neal's white wines.

"Has your Federale contacted Kate?"

"No, nothing yet."

"Or maybe we have something," Mozzie said and picked up a postcard. It was mailed to his current address at 5026 Riverside Drive. He had not thought much about it when he scanned through today's mail. He was, honestly, too used to get mail from fans and admirers to care much for what ended up in this mailbox.

On the image side of the postcard was just 'D5' written. Neal took the card.

"No name. Return address is a P.O. Box."

"It's a chess move," Moz said. "Could it be from Kate?"

"She doesn't like chess." No, this was not from Kate, he was sure of that. He rose and walked over to a small chess set and moved D5. It was the pawn in front of the black queen. Normally this was the second move in the game. White started with E4 and black responded with D5.

"Interesting," Neal mumbled. "They open with black."

"Unusual," Moz agreed. "Symbolically making you virtuous white. Who do you think it is?"

"I don't know."

There was a knock on the door. Neal gestured for Mozzie to fix the contents of the table and Mozzie collected their papers and flipped them over. Neal opened the door.

He was prepared for Peter, for June, for some cop even, but not for this. He frowned.

"Elizabeth?"

She looked awkward.

"Um, it's Peter. He needs your help."

"Come in." Neal stepped aside.

"Good evening, Mrs. Suit."

"Hi, Mozzie."

"I should leave, so you two can—" His friend rose.

"No, no. Please stay," Elizabeth begged.

"Alright…" Moz agreed, intrigued it seemed. Neal bade her sit down on the sofa. She did but seemed to be on the edge.

"Elizabeth, what is it?" Neal asked.

"Um, it's Fowler. He's got a tape showing Peter take a bribe."

"What?!"

"Is the Suit open for a bribe?" Mozzie asked.

"No! He isn't. He didn't take it. But he didn't say no either. It was this judge he spoke to. She offered him a bribe."

"I know. He told me about it. Judge Clark," Neal's brain was now a much easier puzzle solving. "She must have taped him."

"And Fowler will show the tape tomorrow unless you stop him," Elizabeth said.

"That means the judge still has the tape," Mozzie said.

Neal had however reacted to something else Elizabeth said.

"You want us to break into a judge's office and steal a videotape?"

"Yes. Do you have a better idea?"

Neal exchanged a look with Mozzie. There were plenty of better ideas. He did not know which yet, but breaking in was not a good idea.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to break into federal property?" his friend asked Elizabeth and sat down in one of the armchairs. "A judge's chambers, no less?"

"You broke out of one," she answered looking at him and Neal had nothing to argue about there. Besides that breaking out and breaking in were two different things.

"And if you don't do this," she continued. "Peter could go to prison."

"Yeah. If I do, I could go back." He respected that Elizabeth would pick Peter if the choice was between him and her husband, but he also wanted her to understand that it was not a walk in the park for him either.

"You owe him."

Mozzie glanced at Neal as if Elizabeth exposed an unknown leverage Peter had on him. No, it was nothing lite that. Peter had got him out of prison. It was debatable if that meant he owed Peter to go back if his handler got himself in trouble. But if Peter lost his job, he would go back to prison nevertheless, no doubt about it. And Peter was his friend and Fowler had framed him.

"All right. Why don't you get some rest, and we'll handle it?"

"Handle, right," Moz grinned. "Like a doorknob."

Neal stared at him.

Elizabeth rose.

"Thank you. Thank you both."

Neal followed her to the door.

"Get home safe."

He let her out. The moment he closed the door he turned to Mozzie.

"Do you have any idea how we're gonna do this?"

Though they had ten hours at the most to get hold of the tape, which meant they had to have a functional plan within less than that, Mozzie's face broke up in a wide grin.

"Does this include a break-in?" Neal asked.

His friend shook his head.

"You're gonna love this."

"The transport?" If the judge had the tape, Fowler needed to get it.

Mozzie nodded and rose.

"Give me an hour to find out what courier company he'll use."

"What if he goes himself?"

"Fowler? To see the judge he is not supposed to have dealings with?"

No, Mozzie was right. It would be sent with a courier.

"In the meantime, you check out the courthouse." Moz saw that he was about to protest. "Just the exterior. That's legal and within your radius. I don't think the Suit will object to that."

"Fowler might." He knew from experience that Fowler had more access to his tracking data than he was comfortable with. And if he saw that Peter's pet convict was scouting the area around his pet judge, things could go south.

"Point taken," Moz paused in the door. "I'll check the courthouse. I'll be back in two hours then."

"Anything I can do?" Neal hated to not be able to do anything.

"You could refill your wine cabinet." And he was gone.


	5. The Tape

Two hours later, Mozzie was back.

"Seriously? You haven't bought any wine?" was the first thing he said.

"Had other things on my mind than to find a night-open liquor store."

"Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy. Buscaglia said that. A man of education."

"I wasn't worrying," Neal objected. "I was planning." It was true. Worry was in general not part of his mind. But he had been frustrated by the lack of ability to plan with his friend gone. But he had an idea of what they were about to do and he had turned and twisted options and approaches.

"Whatever," Moz said and unpacked his bag on the table. He unfolded a game board and placed a gray box in a corner.

"That's the courthouse," he explained as he sat down. Neal flipped a chair, sat down at the short end and leaned his arms on the backrest.

Mozzie took three mixed soldier figures, a Conestoga wagon, and a refrigerator magnet in the shape of a pumpkin out of the bag.

"Okay, Fowler is sending his private courier to pick up the tape at 8 a.m," he said as he drove the Wild West transport up to the courthouse.

"All right. You got the approach?" Neal asked.

"Don't I always? The courier truck will pull up to the front entrance and check in. When the driver steps out of the truck…" Mozzie illustrated this by taking one of the three plastic soldiers and placed it by the wagon. "…I will stall him." He took a second solder. "This one's me."

"I figured. How are you gonna stall him?" Neal wanted to know.

"With my obvious charm, of course."

"Do we have a backup?"

"Ha. I scouted the building. There's a security-camera blind spot over here." Moz placed the third soldier behind the wagon, by the corner of the courthouse. "So while I stall—"

"I come out of the blind spot dressed as the same courier."

"Exactly."

If someone was watching they would probably note that there was one courier stepping out of the van and another one returning from the back, but in Neal's experience, no one noticed these things when it happened. If the security footage was examined it would be obvious, but that was only done if a crime was noted.

"All right. Any luck getting your hands on a uniform?"

"It's difficult to find a tailor in the dead of night, but I did the best I could."

Moz handed him a beige shirt and pants in some gray-green color.

"Is this a park-ranger uniform?"

"Maybe."

His friend placed a courier company logo in fabric in front of him.

"With an iron-on?"

"I couldn't find a thimble," he said with a face that said 'what do you expect'. Well, his friend had a point. And besides, it would be good enough for someone not expecting a false courier to step over their threshold.

"Oh, don't forget this." Mozzie picked up something more.

"Oh, and a BB gun."

"Would you prefer a real one?"

"No." Shooting pellets were bad enough. Unless he did not point it at someone no one would see the red plastic barrel opening.

"Okay. Now, you go into the office as the courier and pick up the tape." Mozzie moved Neal's soldier onto the gray box aka the courthouse.

"Then you use this," he said and picked up the pumpkin-magnet.

"What's the magnet supposed to be?

"A refrigerator magnet," Mozzie grinned. "But it's actually…" and he flipped it over "…a high-grade neodymium magnet—"

"Which will erase the tape," Neal filled in.

"Yes, thoroughly. Then you change clothes, and hand over the newly blanked tape to the actual courier."

"No one knows I was there."

"And everybody stays out of jail."

There were three people that he knew of that had access to his tracking data. Peter and Jones would probably look the other way, not digging deeper into what he was doing inside the courthouse. And Fowler, well, what could he prove that would not incriminate himself? Besides, he could just as much think that the judge was pulling his leg.

"You think this will work?" he asked his friend.

Mozzie gave him a little shrug in reply. Well, the most important thing was to get the magnet close to the tape. Peter did not deserve to lose his job and without Peter, he would return to prison anyhow. What would the job at the FBI be without Peter, even if they wanted him there? Neal hoped he would never have to find out.

Early the next morning Peter waited outside Herrera's apartment building with two cups of coffee. He had tried to phone Neal but to his surprise, it had gone to voice mail. Well, he had no time to chase the kid now.

"Officer Herrera," he greeted the man when he exited.

The man paused and sent him a glance before he continued down the stairs.

"What do you want, Burke?"

Peter joined him as the man began to walk.

"I got close to Clark, and I'm about to lose my job. You tried to warn me."

"I didn't do anything."

Peter stopped.

"If I'm going down, Clark's coming with me."

Herrera, two steps ahead, halted and turned. He gave him a look and then walked back to him.

"Look, whoever's giving this judge cover, they won't stop at you. Understand? They're gonna go after your friends, your family."

Oh God, what had they done to Herrera?

"That's why it's gotta stop. I need the evidence that proves she's dirty. I need to find the money that she got from the Sullivan loan."

Herrera smiled, considered, then he said.

"I got shut down when I- When I requested a search warrant for the judge's chambers. Start there."

"It'd be nearly impossible to get into, but a great place to hide it," Peter nodded in agreement. It made sense.

He handed Herrera one of the coffee cups.

"I owe you one. Thanks."

Peter left while he sipped his coffee. The judge's chamber. How would he get a warrant and how to not ruin his carer. He had to have something before that tape appeared on Fowler's desk. He brought out his phone and tried Neal's number again. This time he answered on the first signal.

"Peter."

"I spoke with Herrera. He thinks the judge keeps the cash evidence in her chambers."

"You know where exactly?" the kid asked.

"Not yet. Meet me in the office." He needed to have him around. His optimism and ideas. Now more than ever.

There was a pause for several seconds.

"On my way."

Did the kid smile on his end of the phone? For some reason, Peter got a feeling he did not want to know why Neal was smiling. Peter realized it was raining and got a cab.

In the morning Neal and Mozzie waited by the courthouse. Neal on his side where no camera could see him, and Mozzie somewhere on the other side. The car from the courier arrived and a man stepped out and walked around the back and opened the doors. When the driver closed them Mozzie was there.

"You're Ray, right?"

It said that on his jacket.

"Yeah, I'm Ray."

"I thought it was you. I figured you'd have the face of a mouth breather."

Neal watched as Mozzie walked closer to the man, making him back away to keep his private sphere free from the stranger, making him walk to the other side of the van.

"Do we have a problem?"

"You're damn right we do, Tiny," Mozzie went on. "You were supposed to deliver a very sensitive package to me at my house. Instead, you gave it to my mother."

Hidden from the driver's view, Neal walked passed the van and up the stairs to the courthouse. He found the office quick enough and walked up to a secretary with long blond hair.

"Hi. I'm here to pick up a package from…" He checked his clipboard. "Judge Clark."

"Yes. Just a sec." The blond smiled, rose and left her desk.

Neal looked at the watch on the wall. It was a few minutes past eight. How many minutes would Mozzie be able to stall the poor courier? That man probably had his worst morning at the job right now.

The secretary returned with a cardboard envelope.

"This is to be handed to Agent Fowler personally," she said and handed it to him.

"Understood."

"Nobody but him can sign for it," she added while she signed the handover form herself. "Clear?"

Neal nodded. She returned the clipboard.

"Thanks. I'll take care of it," he beamed at her. Now he had the tape. Whatever happened next, Peter would go free. The second he was out in the corridor he ran the magnet over the envelope at both sides.

Next, he took off his uniform in quick moves, grateful that he had spent time to make the pants possible to rip off. He dumped it all in a waste bin by the end of the corridor just as the real currier came up the stairs. Neal walked to meet him.

"Hey! About time you got here! Almost had to deliver this thing myself."

He smacked the envelope at the man's chest.

"Make sure Agent Fowler receives this personally."

"I will. Just sign right here, please."

Neal sighed.

"Give me that." He took the clipboard and signed something signature-looking but unreadable.

"I'm sorry for the delay." The man took his clipboard and hurried downstairs. As he left, Judge Clark entered. Neal figured he better stay out of sight and placed himself behind a pillar. When the judge had hurried by his phone buzzed. It was from Peter. He had better take this call or Peter might begin to be suspicious.

"Peter?" Neal answered.

"I spoke with Herrera," his handler said. "He thinks the judge keeps the cash evidence in her chambers."

"You know where exactly?" If he knew where he could… maybe…

"Not yet. Meet me in the office."

Neal glanced down the corridor as he heard voices and saw Judge Clark and the secretary exit the office. The Judge was in official robes.

"On my way," Neal answered and hung up. Not right away, maybe, but he would get there.

When the corridor was empty Neal slid out from behind the pillar and at an empty desk, he searched for suitable tools to pick the door lock. He found a pen where he could hook off the holder. And paper clips were found at every desk. It was a simple cylinder lock and took him just ten seconds since he had a paper clip and only could take one peg at the time.

He opened the door and slid inside. White walls, luxury, pompous furniture. He saw a box of napkins and pulled out two. If possible, he did not want to leave any fingerprints.

Then he made the portrait of Abraham Lincoln hang askew. He pulled the curtains away from the window and inspected the view. It would be perfect. He placed the bug and moved things on the judge's desk, pulled out one of the few drawers that was not locked and found a lot of loose papers that he threw across the room and then left.

"Court's adjourned," he greeted Mozzie who waited for him by an outdoor cafe. "Clark should be back any minute now."

"Did you find anything in her chambers?"

"No. I made it look like someone tried to."

"You good to go?"

"Yep."

Mozzie unpacked his bag and handed him a pair of binoculars. Neal watched the window that no longer had the view hidden by curtains.

"Here she comes," he said. Soon the secretary was there too.

"She doesn't seem happy," Mozzie could see without binoculars.

"What are they saying?"

"'Someone's been here.' 'What did they take?' 'I don't know.' 'It- It doesn't seem like they took anything.' 'The safe hasn't been touched' There's a safe in there, and you didn't— ?"

"I didn't have time. Stay focused."

"'We're compromised.' 'I need to move everything.' 'Today- Today's no good.' 'Tomorrow's clear.' 'Tomorrow cartoon.'"

"At noon," Neal corrected.

"Sometimes it clicks," Mozzie sighed. "I don't know why. I modified it mys—"

"Focus," Neal reminded him.

"'Get me a deposit box at Certified National immediately.' And they're gone."

"You gonna tell the Suit?"

"Soon as he's out of his meeting."

A meeting that would contain an empty tape and an upset Fowler. He had to get back to the office in time to see his face.

"Neal… is that wise? What we have been doing now isn't exactly legal."

"I'm just gonna pass him the info. I don't need to tell him how I got it." Peter would want it, but hate that it was not something he could officially use. His handler would find a way, though. In the same time, Neal could prove that he had listened to Peter and told him all he knew as soon as he could.

Peter sat in Hughes office and he knew he was in trouble. He wished he had told Hughes of his plans before talking to the judge so he had some form of backup for his claims, but it was too late now.

"Fowler requested a tap on your phone," Hughes said and Peter nodded. Naturally, he would do that. This time he could go through legal channels.

"Garrett," Hughes said as the man stepped into the office uninvited after a quick, symbolic knock. "So, what exactly do you wanna show me?"

Fowler pulled a tape out of an OMS-delivery-envelope. He had a smirk all over his face.

"I'll let the evidence speak for itself." He put the tape in the videocassette player connected to a screen that someone prepared for him.

He pressed play and Peter felt his heart thump inside his chest. What had he said to the judge? How would it look? He could go down with that tape.

But the black screen remained black. The tape was running alright, but there was nothing on it.

Peter exchanged a look with Hughes.

Fowler fast-forwarded, but there was still nothing to see.

"Is there anything recorded on this?" Hughes asked.

"They must've sent the wrong tape."

"Until you have the right one, stop wasting my time."

Fowler had little to say as a protest to that and left the room. Hughes sent him a glance and Peter rose. When he turned to leave he saw Neal standing in the middle of the office with a huge grin on his face. Then Peter knew that Fowler would not reappear with the right tape. The right tape had been sent and delivered, but somehow passed through Neal's hands. The innocent nod he gave Fowler and his goons confirmed it.

He walked up to Neal who never looked so innocent.

"I don't suppose you had anything to do with Fowler's blank tape?"

"Blank tape?"

He did not need the kid to confess to anything.

"Thanks," he said without fuss.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Neal answered and added on second thought: "Oh, but you should thank your wife."

So El had contacted Neal. His beautiful, darling wife. He wanted to blame her for asking someone to commit a crime to save him. He wanted to tell the kid not to listen to her. But he could do neither. Not now. Not this time. There was no crime to prove. And he was innocent. The conversation had been real, but its purpose had been left out on the tape. He would thank El.

Peter gestured for Neal to follow him into his office.

"Okay. That bought us some more time." Not much, so let's use it. "We need to make sure the money is in the judge's chamber," he told Neal as he rounded his desk.

"It is."

He glanced at the kid.

"And… get her to move it."

"She will, tomorrow at noon," Neal answered proudly. "I got the name of the bank where she's dumping it. We can take her down there."

The kid really thought he had arranged it all perfectly, Peter sighed.

"Your information on the money wasn't obtained legally, was it?" Neal shook his head. "We need probable cause for search and seizure on whatever is on her person."

"Are you telling me you can't arrest her with a briefcase full of money?"

"That's right. I can't." He shook his head. Sometimes it all felt so insane and Neal's world so simple and elegant. His eyes fell on the papers on his desk. A surveillance requisition signed by Garrett Fowler.

He sent Neal a sly smile.

"But maybe someone else can."

He turned the folder around and showed the kid.

"How do we let Fowler know the judge is moving the money?" he asked.

Peter was not prone to revenge, but this time it was hard not to gloat.

"He's tapping my phone."


	6. Word from Kate

Peter brought Neal with him home. The second he stepped over the threshold he was met by El who threw herself around his neck.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you, hon. Fowler is tapping our phone and you weren't supposed to know there was an investigation going on."

She nodded in his arms.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. The tape Fowler got was blank. And will so remain, I think."

"No need to think about it," Neal added.

"Thank God," El said.

"Thank yourself," he whispered to her. "And thank Neal."

She nodded and continued to hug him for some more seconds before she let go of him and placed her slender arms around the kid instead and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Neal gave her a polite and friendly hug back.

"So what now?" El asked.

"Neal and I are going to make a phone call."

The kid grinned and El's eyes went between them not getting it. Peter smiled.

"As I said, hon, our phone is tapped."

"Oh… I see." She beamed at them. "Make sure he gets the message."

"We will."

They walked out in the little garden. Peter produced his phone and called Neal. The kid grinned at him and turned away before he picked it up.

"Hello, Peter."

"Neal, I've arranged the money."

"Should we talk about this on the phone?"

"This is my cell. We're fine. Listen, Judge Clark says if I don't pay her soon, she'll send the real tape to Fowler."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Get the money together. She wants it by noon today, or no deal. I'll need your help with the drop."

"Okay. Where is it?"

"Certified National at 51st and 2nd."

"Okay. I'll be there."

"I'm sorry about this, Peter."

What? Peter glanced at Neal and the kid had turned, looking at him.

"Why are you sorry?"

"Well, we both know why this is happening. The music box and all, you shouldn't be involved in this."

Interesting way to apologize.

"Don't worry about it." He hung up.

"By the way, it's a quarter to twelve," the kid said.

"Then I better get there." They both smiled. "You stay for lunch?"

"Any day."

Peter got into the car and on the way there, he called Hughes and Jones. At the bank, he got out of the car followed by a gang of agents in FBI jackets and to his delight he saw Fowler standing with an open bag in front of the judge. He had fallen into the trap. And by the expression on his face, he knew it.

"What's going on, Fowler?" Judge Clark asked.

"Don't say a word. Let me handle this." He met Peter, still with the bag in his hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Assisting you. You're about to close a high-profile case. You're arresting Judge Clark on mortgage fraud. Cash in hand."

Peter took one step closer and continued in a lower voice.

"Unfortunately, this means no more pet judge. No more rubber stamps on your warrants."

"You have no authorization for this," Fowler hissed with certainty.

"Of course I have. You gave it to me." Peter held up the paper Fowler signed. It was not meant to be used here, but that made it all more fun. Now it hit back on his pet judge.

"This is your signature, isn't it? Because if it is, you're a hero," he told the baffled Fowler. "But if not, well, I'm not sure how to explain what you're doing here."

Hughes came up by his side, supporting him. Fowler looked from one to another without saying a word. Seconds went by. Then Fowler said:

"Judge Clark, you're under arrest."

"What?" The judge was as taken aback as Fowler had been, but did not take it just as well.

"You have the right to remain silent," Fowler told her, and added between his teeth: "I highly recommend you exercise that right."

A man and a woman from the FBI cuffed the judge and led her away to a waiting car.

"This is a big win, Garrett," Hughes said, keeping his face. He held out his hand. "Great work."

Fowler shook it, glancing at Peter.

"Yeah. Great work," Peter agreed.

There were no smiles this time. They all knew none of them were out of the game.

Neal stood with Peter in the office watching the argument between Fowler and Judge Clark in the conference room. He guessed he should feel guilty for gloating and taking joy in the show so obviously, but the couple in the room had tried their best to get both him and Peter locked up. No, he felt no shame at all.

He exchanged a look with his handler who grinned all over his face like he was watching a funny cartoon with Donald Duck.

Fowler left the conference room with his briefcase and his coat. He could not leave without passing them.

"How's the interrogation going?" Peter asked.

"Looked mad in there," Neal added.

"Was that Good Cop, Bad Cop?"

"You need a good cop for that," Neal reminded Peter.

"She's plea-bargaining out," Fowler told them. "Confessing to mortgage fraud."

"Just mortgage fraud?" Neal asked.

"I wonder who helped her arrange that deal," Peter said.

"Doesn't matter. She gave up her sources at the bank. Even the clerk that was helping her launder the money. She's gonna get a reduced sentence." Fowler did look rather pleased with himself.

"She's taking advantage of the system."

"I hate when people do that," Neal said with emphasis. "Now that I work for the system, of course."

"I appreciate your cooperation on this one, Peter. Next time I'm in from D.C, I'll give you a call."

To Neal's amazement, it sounded more like a gesture of admiration than a threat. He glanced at Peter. Judging by the smile, he likely agreed to that idea too. Garrett Fowler left their lives for now. He would likely be back one day, but they had won this round.

"That would be 2-0," Neal said.

"What?"

"It was the second round we won."

Peter nodded.

"We still don't know why he wanted to frame you for the jewelry heist. Why he wanted you tucked away in prison. It vexes me."

Neal shrugged.

"Maybe he wanted to give himself an advantage for negotiation with me?"

"Could be. But something doesn't make sense."

It wasn't for nothing that Peter had caught him. That man could not only solve a puzzle but find the pieces too. Neal, he felt he did not care as long as he got Kate back and could talk to her, sort it out between them. To using middle hands was frustrating. He could still feel her skin on his palms that day he had sought her out in that warehouse where he had walked right into a trap and ended up in prison.

The same afternoon Neal and Peter met up with Sullivan and his daughter at their father's house. They took turns in telling the story about the judge, as much as they legally could.

"It'll take time to sort out all the paperwork but no one's taking this from you now," Neal finished the story and watched the little family. It felt good to give a child a real home. Every child should have the obvious right to a family and a safe place to live. He himself had not had that luxury. Though he was not prone to regrets and linger in the past, it was not without that he wondered what he might have become if he had had another childhood. Maybe with a father like Peter instead. And a mother like Elizabeth. She was too young for him to really see her as his own mother, but she cared for him in a way his own mother never had.

"This is where she'll come home from her first day of school," Sullivan said, voice thick of emotions. "Maybe her first date."

"Your dad would be happy," Peter said and Neal saw that his handler was just as filled with sentimental emotions as the rest of them.

"Yeah, he would. Thank you."

Peter ripped off the bright red foreclosure notice from the mailbox and handed it to little Allison.

"Color on this."

The girl giggled.

That evening became special to Peter. When he and Neal returned home to see how Mozzie's cleaning was going he was met by a Mozzie packing up.

"Done for the day already?" Peter asked.

"Done for good, Suit."

"So the rest of the house is clear?"

"Yes," the short man replied to Peter's delight as he took one of his gadgets from Neal's curious hands and packed it in his suitcase.

"But your wiring belongs in a museum," he pointed out and Jones fought to keep the smile from his face again. "You're living in a firetrap. The future is in copper wiring. I know a guy—"

"You've done more than enough," Peter said and looked Mozzie in the eyes. "Thank you."

The odd little man seemed to get that he was genuinely grateful and sent him a bashful smile and picked up his suitcase.

"Moz, I'll walk you out," El said.

"Oh, thanks, El," Mozzie replied and they walked to the door together followed by Jones who still seemed to fight a burst of laughter.

Peter stared after them.

"'El'? 'Moz'?"

Neal came to his side.

"He trusts her. Guess they were okay here."

"Mixed victory." He was not sure if he favored the newfound friends. Neal and El had already had too much contact than he had preferred, considering that he wanted to keep his wife out of the dangers of his job.

"Lot of those lately," Neal sighed.

"You should be happy," Peter said. "Caught a dirty judge. Got rid of Fowler."

"He won't stay away as long as I have the music box."

"As long as he _thinks_ you have it." Peter looked at Neal to see if he had guessed right. Neal studied him for a few seconds.

"Okay, I don't have it."

Peter smiled.

"Oh, look at that. Telling the truth. Did it hurt?"

"Little bit," the kid said as he meant it. "Your turn. You hear back from Kate?"

"I did. Just two words 'See Robert.' That make any sense?"

By Neal's face, Peter guessed that it did.

"Yeah. Robert is her father."

"Wanna talk to him?" Peter hoped he lived in the state of New York at least.

"Won't be easy," Neal said and looked at Peter. "He's dead."

"Oh… Where's he buried?"

"Woodlawn."

Outside his radius, Peter thought.

"How about we go there together tomorrow?"

"It's Saturday."

"Yeah, and?"

Neal gave him a look of wonder.

"Thank you, Peter."

The kid seemed truly grateful that his handler wanted to spend his free time on a Saturday with him. Well, Peter was intrigued, and Neal could not go on his own without getting into trouble. If he could keep the kid from doing something rash by company him on a Saturday it was worth it.

"Think nothing of it."

They walked into the kitchen where El was almost ready with the dinner and Peter and Neal lay the table.

"But, you should consider if it is worth lying to me again," Peter said gently. He did not mean to blame him, but he wanted to point it out for future decisions.

To Peter's delight, Neal actually looked ashamed.

"I'm sorry Peter. I didn't mean to lie to you. And I never said I had it."

"But you said you knew where it was." And that was Peter pretty certain Neal did not. The kid had changed his habits quite a bit since that day out at Avery's house. He had visited the library within his radius more often than not after work, and that Guggenheim museum.

"I did," Neal nodded and looked like a schoolboy caught cheating at a test. "Or rather… I thought I knew where it was. I was confused, Peter. It was a lot to take in. You must believe me when I said I did not intend to lie to you."

He watched the kid. The young con man searched so desperately for his approval. Could it be that Neal had never lied to him and that the kid felt bad that he had? Peter felt a rush of love for the kid. There was a good heart in the young man. And maybe he really wanted to live an honest life.

Overwhelmed by emotions Peter focused on the plates and cutlery on the table.

"I believe you, kid," he mumbled.

The next morning was gray and chilly. Neal walked over to the Burke's and Peter drove them to Woodlawn Cemetery. They got out and Neal walked from memory.

"Do you know where it is?" Peter asked looking out over the vast area of unsorted gravestones.

"I think so. I've just been here once, with Kate, but I've got a fairly good memory."

"I know you do," Peter grinned. "Duke Ellington is here too somewhere. And Miles Davis."

"Elizabeth told you, right?"

"Yep."

"Well, Nellie Bly is here too."

"Who?"

"Claimed insanity and was taken to an asylum where she spent days learning about the horrible conditions for the patients."

"A con-man, woman. Of course, you know about her," Peter sighed.

"She did it for a good cause. Helped a lot of people. Many were locked up for no reason. You should read her book."

"Maybe I will. Kind of macabre for a meeting place."

"Yeah," Neal agreed. "It sends a certain message."

Mozzie stepped out in front of them.

"Yeah. 'All hope abandon, ye who enter here.'"

He liked Mozzie but why did he have to appear every time there was something concerning Kate? He glanced at his handler who was surprisingly quiet concerning the intrusion.

"I called him," Peter said.

Neal grit his teeth. Peter calling Mozzie. His two friends in collusion.

"Consider this your Kate intervention," Moz said. "It's time to think about giving up the chase."

"No, thanks." These two, why was it so hard to understand that he wanted to talk to her himself. And not abandon the love of his life based on what they thought.

He glanced around. It ought to be close.

"There it is." He hurried over. A bouquet lay attached. He sat down on his heels. "Robert Moreau."

"Kate's father," Peter said. "Flowers are a few days old. She's been here."

Neal lifted the bouquet. It was a correct observation. Then he saw something among the stems. He picked it out. A yellow, origami flower. He hid it in his hand and put the flowers back. Kate was not the one who had been here. The answer Peter had got had not been from Kate.

"Anything?" his handler asked.

"No." Nothing concerning Kate. Nothing concerning the music box. "Maybe you guys were right. Abandon all hope."

He had wanted his passed with Kate to catch up with him. Instead, someone else from the past had turned up and knocked on his door. He was not sure yet if he was about to open and let her in.

He remained on his heels, disappointed and abandoned. He heard Peter walk away, probably to leave him some privacy.

"Does that flower mean what I think it means?" he heard Mozzie's voice.

"Yeah, I think it does."


	7. Breakfast

It was Sunday afternoon and Neal had joined June on a walk in the park. They sat on a bench watching to kid's team playing soccer on the lawn. June had a relaxing effect on him. When he sat there it almost felt possible to leave Kate and move on in life.

"Scenery, fresh air, just about everything I couldn't get at my last address," he said with a happy smile to June.

"Byron loved the park too," she nodded. "For very much the same reasons."

They shared a grin. With June he could be himself and she never blamed him for who he was or tried to change him.

"You do like bad boys."

She nodded.

They watched June's granddaughter Samantha make a goal.

"She's pretty good," Neal complimented.

"Yes, she is."

"Oh, here she comes," Neal said when she girl ran towards them, all smiles and full of life.

"Grandma June, did you see?"

"Yes, I did. And you were wonderful." A proud grandmother.

"I'm gonna go again. Watch."

"Okay, I'm watching."

The girl ran back to the game.

"Go get them," he called after her.

When the girl was out of hearing range Neal frowned.

"Your granddaughter doesn't look sick."

It was so wonderful that she was happy and playing, but looks could deceive.

"Not today," June said and her voice was serious. "Samantha was taken off of the donor's list last week."

How can a kid who needs a new kidney be taken off the list to get one? Without a new kidney, Samantha was going to die.

"What can I do?" Neal asked.

June turned her head and stared at him.

"It's not that easy, Neal."

"I know I can't steal a kidney for her, but let me at least try to help. Maybe I can get Peter to do something."

June nodded.

"Maybe."

And then she told him something that kept him thinking most of the night. The next morning he knew where to start and walked straight to Peter's house. He was eager to tell Peter and also loved to shake the routines his handler was so fond of. Peter of all people should know that routines made you vulnerable since you became predictable.

He picked the front door and walked inside where Burke's sat by their dining table having breakfast.

They both stared as if he was from outer space.

"Morning. Neal," Elizabeth greeted him and seemed to catch the new situation quickly.

"Hope you don't mind. I let myself in."

"I mind," Peter said. He glanced at his wife but she just shrugged.

This was going to be fun, Neal thought and added to his already wide smile.

"You guys having breakfast?"

"Yeah. We're having breakfast, yeah…" Peter nodded. Neal refused to take the hint. "It's a crazy ritual I'm sort of fond of. You wanna know why?"

Neal's eyes fell on the cereal package. They may be rich in Vitamin D and Calcium but…

"Because you love the free toys," Neal said, sure of himself, and grabbed the package, scanning its contents.

"Because breakfast doesn't involve you. You see, every morning I sit at my dining table with my lovely wife and my delicious cereal and no thoughts of Neal Caffrey."

Neal jammed his hand into the package.

"It says there is free sheriff's badge in there. You get it already?"

"El, do something."

Elizabeth handed him her unused bowl.

"Do you want a bowl with that cereal?"

Neal found the sheriff's badge and returned the package to the table.

"Thank you." He sent his handler a glare of rebuke. "Manners."

Peter had been rude, strictly speaking, but Neal did not care for real. He mused at the badge with a childish grin.

"That's not what I had in mind," Peter told his wife. Then he faced his intruder and almost yelled at him: "Why are you here?"

Time to get serious. He placed the badge in his pocket and let go of the grin.

"I'm here because of June."

Peter enjoyed the quiet Monday morning having breakfast with his wife when the front door suddenly opened and Neal walked in. He could nothing but stare at the young con-man. Had the kid just picked the lock of his front door?

"Morning. Neal," El said.

"Hope you don't mind. I let myself in."

"I mind," Peter said. It was not what he was supposed to say but he was an FBI agent and Neal was a convict. El just shrugged. She could handle changed plans. He admired her for that but in situations like this, he would have loved her support. He could not leave an intrusion like this unnoticed and unremarked. But somehow he knew he was no match for Neal.

"You guys having breakfast?" The kid sat down, uninvited.

"Yeah. We're having breakfast, yeah." Of course, this had no effect. "It's a crazy ritual I'm sort of fond of. You wanna know why?"

"Because you love the free toys." Neal grabbed the package and scanned down among the cereals.

"Because breakfast doesn't involve you," Peter stated. Rude, but he did not care. "You see, every morning I sit at my dining table with my lovely wife, and my delicious cereal, and no thoughts of Neal Caffrey."

To his horror Neal jammed his hand into the package, rumbling about among the cereals Peter thought he would have for breakfast.

"It says there is free sheriff's badge in there? You get it already?"

It was totally beyond comprehension. Neal was teasing him, alright. And Peter knew he had lost.

"El, do something."

Elizabeth handed him her unused bowl.

"Do you want a bowl with that cereal?"

"Thank you. Manners."

"That's not what I had in mind," Peter told his wife. The kid had ruined his breakfast, his cereal and was now playing with a sheriff's badge in plastic. What kind of crazy world had he woken up to?

"Why are you here?" he barked at Neal.

The smile disappeared from the kid's face.

"I'm here because of June."

Peter knew at once that Neal was serious. His face, his posture, his voice. This was the serious Neal. The Neal who did his job.

"June owns the house Neal lives in," Peter told El.

"I know who June is."

"Her granddaughter needs a kidney but she was bumped from the transplant list last week."

"Why?"

"I don't know. But a woman approached June, said her organization could find a kidney for her granddaughter."

"A lot of charities do that."

"Yeah," Neal nodded. "But she asked for a donation. Of a hundred thousand dollars."

"A hundred grand?" That was not asking for a voluntary donation. That was selling a kidney. He watched Neal over the rim of his coffee cup. "Look at you, bringing me a case."

The kid had fastened the plastic badge in his breast pocket of his suit.

"Well, it's what us lawmen do."

"Okay, I'm interested. Talk to June. Get me specifics."

"So I can run with it?"

"'Run with it?'" Peter repeated. "No, Barney Fife. No, you can walk very slowly. As long as you don't interrupt my breakfast again." He saw that his wife had to keep from laughing at this.

"Gotcha," Neal confirmed and rose. "Enjoy your meal."

"Neal?"

The kid turned.

"Remember, that's not real." Peter nodded towards the star on his chest.

Neal's smile grew to his ears as a kid up to shenanigans and then he left. The silence and comfort of his breakfast returned.

"I can't believe he did that," he said to El. She smiled and put her hand on top of his.

"Look upon it from the positive side. He dares to tease you because he knows you're fair and knows you don't put him back in prison on a whim."

Well, that was one way to look upon it. Peter, however, was not fond of intrusions.

"He picked our front door!"

"You knew that he could do that," El said. "And he was comfortable with showing you."

"He put his hand in my package of cereals. I suppose that is a display of comfort too?"

"It was over the top, but in a way, yes, it was."

Peter stared at her. Unbelievable. How could she even defend him?

She leaned her head on her side.

"Hon, how do you think Neal would tell you that he trusts you? That he even likes you?"

He had not thought about it, so he shrugged.

"I don't know. With words, maybe?"

"Would you trust him, if he told you? Neal Caffrey, the con-man with a silver tongue."

No, he probably would not. He smiled when he realized that his wife was right. Neal had told Peter a lot that morning.

"Take care of him, hon," El said. Peter nodded.

"Yeah. I will."


	8. Jimmy Burger

It was not like he was going to con anyone. Still, it felt the same thrill as when he made himself ready for one of those heists where he had just walked in and taken what he came for.

Mozzie watched him as he put on his cuff-links.

"You talked to the Suit about this?" he asked.

"He told me to run with it," Neal replied, not fully truthfully.

"Those were his words?" Moz asked, sounding skeptical. "'Run with it'?"

"More or less."

"I'm assuming less."

Amazing how well his friend knew Peter. After all, they had not met that much.

"Peter told me to get specifics," Neal said and adjusted his tie. "I can't do that until I meet the representative. Which is why I set up a face-to-face as June's financial adviser."

"Who's the representative?"

"Melissa Calloway." Neal watched the image of himself and was pleased. He was a financial adviser all the way through. He turned to Mozzie.

"Charity's called Hearts Wide Open." No serious charity could have that name. It was like a threat.

"That is truly menacing," Mozzie said, reflecting Neal's own thoughts. "If I made a horror movie, I would definitely call it Hearts Wide Open."

Neal turned on the TV and got four images of the four security cameras he had discretely and very secretly installed with the help of Mozzie. They saw a car stop right outside.

"Right on time."

"Already I don't trust this woman," Mozzie declared with certainty.

"Because she drove here?"

A woman stepped out and opened the back door going through a briefcase there.

"A New Yorker who doesn't take the subway is not a New Yorker you can trust."

"I don't take the subway," Neal pointed out. He did not need to point out it was due to his anklet and the contract he had signed. The GPS did not work below ground.

"Precisely."

"She left her briefcase in the back," Neal noted. "All right, Moz. I need a favor. Break into her car."

"That's not so much a favor as a truly horrible idea. It's one o'clock in the afternoon." When Neal did not immediately agree, he continued like he got angry on a child. "There's a reason crimes happen at night. People can't see you!"

"All right, fine," Neal said. "Fine. I'll do it."

"You have a meeting."

"No. You have a meeting," Neal told Mozzie, who stared. "This is for June, remember?"

His friend gave in and sighed.

"I need a tie."

Neal walked to his bed and handed him one of those he rejected.

"Ask about the charity. How it works. More importantly, how the money works. And buy me 20 minutes."

"Since when am I a people person?"

He saw Mozzie being uncomfortable, but he did not need to be a people's person. He just needed to be there and ask questions. The woman was there to sell.

"Just do what I do."

Neal opened the door and Mozzie put on the tie as he passed him.

"'Just do what I do.'"

Mozzie walked downstairs and Neal heard June meet the visitor. If she was surprised to see Mozzie instead of him, she did not let it show.

When he heard they had walked into the dining room he got down and out. He made a quick walk around the block and approached Calloway's car. He pulled out his kit of lock-picks and took one of them. Just as he turned to the car to do get working on the lock he saw the reflection of a police officer in the car's blank surface.

He could not leave now. Neither could he could pick the lock since it would take too long. The lock-pick went down to his pocket and he slammed the palm of his hand down on the car in frustration.

"Great. Man, just great."

"What's going on here?"

"Oh, officer, hi. Can you give me a hand here? I locked my briefcase in my car." He gestured to the briefcase on the backseat." And, of course, my wife grabbed the wrong keys again. And…"

"You got ID that proves this is your car?"

"Yes, sir," Neal nodded. "Yes, sir. In the glove box right here. Damn it. I gotta be at the courthouse in 20 minutes."

"You a lawyer?"

"Prosecutor." No, he did not want to be the guy who let the crooks go today. "Arraigning this dirtbag who took a swing at a cop when he showed up on a domestic."

"Guy hit a cop?"

"Right across the jaw."

The officer glared at him as if he was the one who had taken the swing. Then he produced his radio.

"This is Yatsko. I'm gonna need a patrol car right away."

The officer gave him a wide smirk and Neal had to fight the feeling that the officer was about to arrest him. Instead, he thought of the image now on the surveillance camera. Knowing his friend, Mozzie most likely had made sure that he could take a peek now and then on his phone. He was probably fighting a heart attack at this very moment.

A patrol car arrived and another officer stepped out.

"A prosecutor needs to get into his car," Officer Yatsko told the new guy. "Left his briefcase in there."

The new officer nodded and returned with a flat wire used to open older cars that still had mechanical locks.

"You have no idea how much I appreciate this," Neal said as the officer went to work to get the wire in between the metal of the door and the window.

"Anytime."

"Hey, what was the name of the arresting officer on your case?" Officer Yatsko asked.

Neal frowned as if he tried to remember.

"Jones." A common name. Always worked. "Jones. Sixth Precinct."

"Jones…" Officer Yatsko repeated. "Jones… You know a Jones?" he asked his colleague.

"I know Jones."

"Of course you know Jones," Neal said. "Yeah. Tough guy. He could do something if he applied himself, you know? Yes."

"Yeah, he's a real ballbuster," the officer agreed.

"Yeah…" The door finally clicked and opened. "Oh, great. Let me just— Let me just grab my ID for you." He dived into the car without hesitation.

"No, you're good," the first officer assured him.

"You sure? I got it right here." He could talk himself out of a lot, but if he could not prove his identity and ownership of the car they would take him in. No way he could talk himself out of that.

"Yeah, don't worry about it."

Neal tried to not show that his heart-rate dropped and his body relaxed. He hid it by sitting down on the seat. He thanked the cops again and added a 'I'm gonna get this guy for you' for good measure.

He had been a bit worried that Officer Yatsko would offer him a ride to the courthouse, but none of the officers reflected on that he should not have any keys to drive the car with.

He grabbed the briefcase from the backseat and started to scan its contents. He brought out his phone and started to take pictures when the phone rang.

"Mozz, don't worry. Cops are gone," he said, eager to get his camera back.

"That's great. I hope you're done."

"Not yet."

"Well, then get done. You told me to do what you do. So I asked her to dinner."

"What happened?"

"She left," Moz replied. "Running."

Neal hung up and jammed the papers back in the briefcase. He missed a paper. He looked at it. It was an invitation to a tennis tournament next Saturday. Was it August already? Time flies when you were not in prison. He flung the invitation back to and got the briefcase back to its original place.

He opened the car door and got out. As he closed the door he heard voices from June's and saw a woman with long, red hair leave. They passed each other as any strollers on a sidewalk. When he passed her he turned and watched her red hair waving in the breeze. He hoped he could convince Peter to join the Tennis tournament.

When he returned inside he was met by June.

"Any particular reason you put your friend on this?"

"Mozzie didn't think it was a good idea to break into a car in broad daylight."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I doubt that Mozzie could even sell water in the Sahara desert," she sighed and leaned closed to him. "So I do hope that whatever reason you didn't join the meeting gave you any information you can use."

He beamed at her. At least he had a list of donors.

The next morning when he got to the office he wrote down the names he had found on the papers he had photographed. Then he walked over to Jones' desk.

"I've got a list of names for a possible case Peter asked me to look further into," he began.

"And since you don't have access you want me to check them up for you?"

"Yeah. Or tell me who to turn to. Or give me access, that would be the easiest."

Jones grinned.

"Give me the names. I'll do it."

Neal handed him the list.

"Hope you can read my handwriting."

"I was one of the agents in Peter's team when we were chasing you, remember?"

"Hard to forget," he said and sent Jones one of his smiles. "You cuffed me."

The agent had been formal and correct then and accepted him as a team member now.

"My point is, I know your handwriting."

"Good to know." Neal wasn't sure if Jones was just bragging or made sure Neal knew who is was talking to.

"Swing by for a beer sometime," he smiled at the agent. "I miss your regular afternoon visits."

When he had been on the case going undercover as a salesman/spy for Avery he had been off anklet at daytime and Jones had come by every morning to take it off, and returned at night to put it back on. Soon he stayed for a beer. He liked Jones, though the guy kept his professional distance.

"Thanks," Jones gave him a look of a friend. "Maybe I'll do that."

Peter handed Neal a file and waved for him to follow him to his room

"Looked into Hearts Wide Open," he said as the kid walked beside him with his nose in the file. "Your friend Melissa works for the charity's founder, Dr. Wayne Powell. Runs a number of high-end medical clinics across the East Coast. Very respectable kind of guy."

Peter walked up the stairs to the bullpen.

"I wouldn't be so sure," his young convict said. "I talked to Melissa."

Peter halted and swung around to face the kid. As far as he remembered he had told him to talk to June, not anyone at Hearts Wide Open.

"I got some names," Neal told him.

"Are they admissible?" Peter asked. As expected the con-man made a slight shake of the head. So he had run instead of walking slowly. Why could the kid never learn there were reasons for rules and protocol?

"Let me tell you a story."

"Really not necessary," Neal tried but Peter did not listen to his protest.

"I had a CI once. Local kid named Jimmy Burger. Raised some money and opened a restaurant on 5th."

"Let me guess, he called it 'Jimmy's Burgers'?" the kid asked. "'Burger Joint'?"

"You done?"

"Yeah."

"In order to stay in business, he had to do the mob some favors. But Jimmy didn't like that. So he came to us. He helped us make some cases. But then Jimmy got cocky. Started sticking his nose where it didn't belong. You know what happened?"

"It didn't end happily ever after?"

To his credit, at least Neal was dead serious and focused.

"No. He took one," Peter said. "Right there." And he stabbed his finger in the kid's forehead.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because Jimmy Burger is an example of what happens when you try running the show on your own. Don't."

Peter continued up the stairs. Jones passed him.

"Hey, Neal. Info on those names you asked me to check out." Jones handed Neal a file.

"Unbelievable. Like talking to a wall."

"I hadn't heard your story yet," Neal pointed out. He was right.

Peter motioned for the kid to open the file from Jones.

"Let me see."

They read the list of names of people donating money.

"All members of Doctoral Global Initiative," Neal noted. "Powell's charity supplies organs. Maybe this is how he finds them."

"Interesting using the Third World as your own organ bank." The thought was horrible. "Still, it's too circumstantial to make a case."

Peter considered.

"Let's talk to Powell," he decided. Time to do it right.

"I know where to find him," Neal said with a wide grin.

Peter stared at him and the kid's beam was turned off and his eyes returned to the file.

"Neal, I'm serious."

"What do you expect me to do, Peter?"

"Follow the law."

"There's a reason why it took you so long to catch me, Peter. And that's the reason why I'm now working as a consultant for the FBI."

Peter placed his hands on his hips and glared at the young man.

"You _are_ getting cocky."

"No!" the kid protested. "All I say is that don't ask me to not be me. Neither of us will like the result."

"I can't accept that you break the law, Neal."

"I know that. But as long as I don't ruin a case, let me be me, do what I do best."

The kid looked serious enough. Pleading really. But as a federal agent and the kid's handler, he could not condone criminal activities. Still, Neal had a point. He thought of El's analysis of the breakfast-scene. If she was right, his pet convict trusted him. Peter had to admit he, in many ways, trusted Neal too. Not to be a law-abiding citizen but… He sighed.

"Be careful."


	9. Peter the charmer

Peter was driving as usual. The place they approach was posh. Just the kind of place Neal enjoyed as his playground. They stepped out of the car and a valet took care of it.

They walked inside.

"All right, scan the crowd," Peter mumbled beside him. "Powell's gotta be there somewhere."

They did not get far until they reach a smiling man.

"Invite only, gentlemen."

"Okay…" Neal agreed and put his hand in his inner pocket. "I left mine at home."

"Sorry. You're gonna have to go home and get it."

"Okay." He turned and walked back towards the door.

Peter grabbed his armed and hissed:"

"That was your plan? Didn't forge an invitation?"

Did his handler really expect him to do that after his little speech yesterday?

"I was allowed to?"

"No!" Of course, he would say that. But yet Peter had expected him to. It was quite funny when you thought about it.

Neal saw Melissa Calloway and she was just beside the entrance.

"Wait, that's her," he said to Peter, turned on his charm and walked up to her.

"Excuse me. Hi. I seem to have forgotten my invitation."

The woman scanned him up and down with a faint polite smile.

"And you are?"

"Dr. Parker from Doctoral Global Initiative." She did not warm up to that. "But you can call me Leonard. And you are?"

They shook hands. Hers totally lacked interest.

"Miss Calloway. Remember your invitation next time, doctor. Have a good afternoon."

She turned away, dismissive.

"You too," Neal mumbled. It was not often he failed so fatally.

"Let's go." Peter pulled his arm.

"I'm sorry," Calloway said and returned her attention to them. "And you are?"

"Doctor—"

"Edgar Tannenbaum," Neal filled in before Peter had had too much time to not say anything. "He's from DGI as well."

"Pleasure to meet you," she smiled and held out her hand. "I'm Melissa."

Neal liked Peter, but when his handler succeeded where he himself had failed, he had to fight to keep a straight face. And when it all came to a woman's attention… Ouch, it hurt. Sure he was vain and he was used to charm women, but Peter was incapable of flirting! How could he lose to a man who was almost old enough to be his father and thought he must end up in bed with a woman if he flirted with her?

"Nice to meet you, Melissa," Peter shook her hand. Did Neal hear the pride of winning in his voice?

"What is your area of expertise, doctor?"

"Chiropractics," Peter answered without blinking and Neal sighed. The Third World was just dying to get a chiropractor when kids were starving and wars fought.

"You're a chiropractor? And you work with DGI?"

"Poor posture doesn't discriminate," Neal added to the conversation.

Melissa's eyes were lost on Peter.

"We may have a few slots still available. You boys willing to get your hands dirty?" The glance she offered Neal was just symbolic. He came with the package and she just had to accept it.

They agreed to her question.

"Then follow me."

She walked ahead of them.

Neal searched for eye contact with Peter. How did he do that? He saw his look and shrugged.

"You underestimate me."

She made sure they could pass the guard who had stopped them before.

Neal put a hand across his handler's shoulders as any buddy would and leaned close to him.

"You do realize you have to flirt with her for the rest of the day, right?" He did remember two ladies who caused Peter trouble not that long ago. "Should be a fun story to tell Elizabeth over breakfast tomorrow."

The face of a winner was gone. Neal grinned and followed Peter's new lady friend through the building and out on the garden on the other side. The best of it all was that now Neal might be the one talking to Powell instead of Peter. His handler would hate it.

Peter followed the kid out on the back of the house and faced a park with a pool and plenty of people carrying a tennis racket that looked like they had no clue how to use it.

"There's Powell by the bar," he told Neal. "See if you can get close to him."

He had to admit that it was up to the kid now to get information. Not what he had had in mind but at least Peter was with him this time.

"You'll have to pry your girlfriend off his arm first," Neal smirked.

"Any schlub can pick up a girl at a bar," Peter said. "Want a challenge? Try keeping a beautiful woman happy for ten years running."

Neal sent him a glance.

"How long has it been?" he asked.

Oh, the kid picked up another message in what he just said.

"Summer of '98." That was the year he met El.

"Whoa!"

His friend halted him.

"You haven't flirted in the 21st century?"

The kid stared at him as if he came from outer space. They had talked about this! Neal knew he did not flirt. Or at least he thought the kid knew.

"No."

Neal did not seem happy about the answer. Sure, Neal liked to flirt and would have done a splendid job in getting Melissa out of the way for Peter, but now the woman had picked him and not the younger model. How hard could it be to take her for a stroll in the park?

"Listen, when you talk to Powell, tell him that you're from Doctoral Global Initiative," he instructed Neal. "See how he reacts."

Neal leaned against a bar table and made a tennis-clad young woman company.

"Copy that, Tannenbaum."

Peter sent him an annoyed glance and reminded himself to have a battery of names ready for the next event with Neal. He walked up to Powell and Melissa. The good doctor had his glass refilled and did not pay him any attention.

"Hey there," he greeted her.

When she turned and saw who he was she seemed to be so thrilled to see him on a level that Peter lost every reasonable pickup-line he might have thought of.

"You look thirsty," he blurted and felt like an utter fool.

"I would love a drink," she replied and by her look, Peter figured he could have said almost anything and she would still undress him with her eyes. Oh God, how he hated this. How could Neal say that flirting was just a flirt? This woman would eat him alive.

"Oh, and I still need to show you your spot, don't I?"

"Right," he agreed and tried to smile without any idea of what she was talking about. "Let's go see my spot."

"I'll be back in a minute," Melissa told Powell and they left the bar leaving room for Neal.

They walked around the house and Peter had to fight the urge and turn to see how things were going for the kid.

"You work closely with Powell?" he asked the attractive woman beside him.

"He keeps a small circle. Your friend back there seems to have captured his attention."

So she had seen what happened when they left.

"He's a charmer."

A servant with drinks approached.

"I prefer someone with a little more… experience." She took two glasses and handed him one with a smile that made him feel young and handsome, like Neal.

"You're married," she noted as he took the glass with his left hand, the one with the wedding band.

Peter saw no way to say something but the truth.

"Ten years and counting."

"Commitment," she noted and clinked her glass to his. "Another quality I admire."

Once again Peter felt as if he had fallen into the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland.

There was white a cubical tent with its loose walls waving in the wind and Melissa walked ahead inside. There was an examination table inside.

"We've arranged this setup in case any of our athletes have any injuries today. The club has a doctor on call but would you mind acting as backup?"

"I'm here to help."

"Great."

When she took his glass from his hand and placed both their glasses on a stool Peter got a horrible feeling he had said the wrong magic word.

"I'll be your first patient," Melissa beamed at him. "I've had this knot in my back."

She started to unbutton her jacket with a look at him as if she wanted to play doctor and patient in *that* way.

"Would you mind taking a look?"

"No," he forced himself to say.

She turned her back to him and let the jacket fall, but Peter watched the roof of the tent wave in the wind a second or two before he dared to let his eyes venture to her back. For a brief moment, he thought she was naked but then he saw it was only her back that was bare.

"Okay…" he mumbled completely unaware of what to do next. "Everything appears smooth." Peter bit his tongue. 'Smooth'? A term fit for a chiropractor indeed.

"Just below the fifth vertebrae," she said and gestured up her back.

Peter braced himself and raised his hands. Where was the fifth vertebrae? He hoped he was in just about the right spot to not appear as ignorant as he was when his hands met her skin and he pressed hit thumbs near her spine.

"Feel that?" she asked. "A lot of tension, right?"

"I can feel the tension, yup. Yup," he agreed, more thinking of his own than the non-existing in hers. This was beyond flirting, Peter thought. The kid had said that flirting was about showing appreciation. This Melissa was just craving for more. He thought about Neal and how easy the young conman adapted.

"Maybe this is stress from work, maybe," he mumbled over her shoulder. If this was what got her talking…

"Maybe," she replied and he waited for more. "Why don't you go lower?"

Peter swallowed. This did not go as he hoped it would. What would Neal do? And Tannenbaum? He moved his hands lower and massaged with his thumbs.

"Maybe we're working the wrong side." She turned and looked at him as if she was ready to take it much further.

"I'm not quite ready for that," Peter admitted and turner her back towards him, massaging her back. "Maybe you should tell me more about your work with Dr. Powell? Why it's causing so much tension down here."

She was silent. Had he asked too obvious or was she just disappointed? He moved his thumbs with great enthusiasm.

"Well, we operate the Howser Clinic in Manhattan," she said with as much passion as she had greeted Neal.

"The Howser? Best clinic there is," Peter mumbled into her ear. "I've been dying to check it out."

"Well, you should come see it for yourself," she replied as she turned and pushed a string of hair away, exposing a bare shoulder. She slid her hand inside his jacket and she smiled when he stiffened. She found a pen in his inner pocket.

"This is my personal number." She hold the card against his chest as she wrote. "Feel free to give me a call. Whenever you're ready."

He accepted the card and she replaced his pen.

The took her jacket and left the tent as she pulled it back on.

Neal watched Peter as he approached Melissa and by a miracle, he must have said the right thing because she smiled as if the man in front of her was the most handsome man on the planet. Neal was honestly baffled. He had never seen his handler as a womanizer and he was pretty certain that it was Elizabeth who had taken the initiative when they met. But who was he to know if a man was handsome or not? And besides, taste differed. He saw them leave the bar without even having a drink. It was his cue and he walked up to the bar and swung his elbows on it.

"Scotch on the rocks, please. Actually, you know what, hold the rocks. I just got off a 30-hour flight. Sooner I forget it the better."

"There's a trick to that, you know?" the good doctor beside him said. "Sleeping pills."

"Yeah, it never works. Too wound up."

"The trick is not taking it on the plane. Take it in the car on the way to the airport."

"Thanks for the advice, Doctor…?"

"Powell."

Neal turned on his star-struck face.

"Powell? Dr. Wayne Powell?" The man nodded and Neal continued: "Oh, my… You're one of my heroes!"

Powell smiled. Neal held out his hand.

"Leonard Parker, Doctoral Global Initiative."

The doctor shook his hand.

"DGI? Well, may I say that you are one of my heroes."

"Oh, I'm happy to hear that."

"Doctoral Global Initiative is one of the few charitable organizations I still respect."

"Is that why you founded Hearts Wide Open?"

"One of the reasons."

He turned to the bartender.

"Cranberry juice."

Neal noted that that was what it had likely been in the previous glass too. So the man did not drink alcohol, but a large amount of cranberry juice.

"You know, perhaps you can help me," Powell said. "I've got what you might call a friend in need. See, his remaining kidney is highly sensitized. PRA is through the roof. What he needs is a zero mismatch."

Neal nodded.

"Well, perfect compatibility is rare." It must be or this doctor would not think of this as a problem.

"I'm hopeful," Powell smiled. "There's a village on the outskirts of Manipur. Genetics of the population show some promise."

"India? I travel there often," Neal said. "It's unfortunate the locals can't legally sell you what you need. Both parties would win."

"My friend would agree with you." Their eyes met and Neal knew Powell was convinced he had an ally.

"I tell you what," Powell continued and dug in his pocket. "Why don't you give me a call whenever you find yourself there?" He handed him a business card. "We make exceptionally charitable donations."

The good doctor pattered him on the shoulder and left.

Neal considered what he had just heard and drummed the edge of the card to the bar. Time to find Peter. He had seen him leave with Melissa around the house. He walked in that direction, keeping a lookout.

There was one of those square tents you often used for outdoor parties to not be as sensitive for the weather. A woman who Neal thought at first was topless left the tent. When she put her jacket on he saw she had a silk top covering her front. When he realized the woman was Melissa Calloway Peter stepped out of the tent.

Neal had rarely been as baffled. His respectable handler in a tent with a haft-dressed woman? He gawked. And Peter gave him an angry glare when he saw they had been spotted. By the direction of the steps, Peter headed for the car at an impressive speed. Neal was quite sure it was time to leave this interesting tennis tournament.

When he sat down beside Peter he hardly had time to fasten his seatbelt before the car was leaving the parking lot.

"Easy, tiger. You're still a fed, supposed to uphold the laws, remember."

"Nothing happened, if that what you think," Peter said with teeth so clenched that Neal wondered if one would break under the pressure.

"Of course not. You're a married man, unable to flirt. What could possibly have happened?"

Peter still drove in too high speed for Neal to feel quite comfortable.

"Peter, you want me to not keep information from you, but unless you relax and realize nothing happened and that your wife will not kill you, I will not tell you what I learned from Powell, okay?"

Peter glanced at him. Then he slowed down and smiled.

"I hope you got more than a phone number."

"Did you get her phone number? Wow, Peter, I'm impressed."

"Shut up, kid, and tell me what you got."

Neal didn't say a word. Peter glanced at him.

"Well?"

"You told me to shut up."

"Stop it, Neal."

Neal smiled and held up a business card.

"I got his phone number," he said with a proud grin. "Maybe we can switch? I'm more into those curves Melissa got."

"Dream on."

"Well, Powell offered me an exceptionally charitable donation to DGI if I found him a kidney in India."


	10. Rattled

It was late but Peter had not made his way home yet. As so many times before he got sucked into his work and forgot about time. Somehow his marriage still worked. El accepted him for the way he was. And she a business too with irregular hours. It had never been much of an issue for them. They lived their lives together and Peter did the best he could to listen to her and be a good husband.

Neal came in.

"Hey, Dr. Tannenbaum," he greeted him and closed the door to the almost deserted office. "Elizabeth was just wondering… does FBI stand for Female Body Inspector?" He grinned all over his face.

"Sit down and shut up." Peter smiled. It must surely be odd for the kid to find his old, married handler be the one who got the woman's attention. He browsed once more through the file.

"I pulled Powell's travel records. He's been flying to India quite a bit. I can't arrest the guy for building up his mileage." He dropped the file on his desk.

"What about the people he uses to scout for organs?" the kid asked.

"Virtually impossible to prove," Peter said. "The charity masks their work as volunteering. And all the funds that pass through there are tagged as charitable contributions."

Neal slowly shook his head. Peter understood the feeling. You wanted a charity to stand for the good stuff, be honest and honorable.

"Powell looks like a saint through all this. And considering his own condition…" Peter lingered on the news, sparking Neal's interest.

"His own condition?"

"Kidney disease."

"That explains why he was drinking cranberry juice at the club."

Peter could almost see Neal's brain at work.

"That's right," he said. "Apparently he was born with just one kidney. His PRAs are high. He needs—"

"A zero mismatch. Peter, he's got the perfect cover here," the kid sighed. "If he weren't so dirty, I'd almost respect him."

"All right, what we have here is a nice little theory," Peter reminded his pet convict. "I need proof."

He picked up the business card he got from Melissa.

"And I'm guessing it's all here," he said and handed it over to Neal.

"The Howser Clinic?" he asked after looking at it. "What, you think he'd keep patient records there?"

"Gotta keep a log of those wealthy friends."

"Let's take a look," the kid said as if it was that simple.

"Can't," Peter told him. "Doctor-patient confidentiality prohibits us from getting inside."

In almost any situation he favored that confidentiality because what was said between a patient and the doctor was their business only and certainly not the governments'. When some used that law to cover their dirty laundry it made Peter twice as eager to catch the crook.

"We need to look at this another way," he told the kid. No way they would get away with it. If they sold organs he would put them behind bars. He met the eyes of the young man across the table and he saw that eagerness he knew so well.

"And Neal…"

"Yeah?"

"I said 'we'."

"I heard you."

"So you're not trying to run the show on your own?"

"I don't plan to. June's granddaughter needs a kidney, and I don't want ruin her chances," the kid replied with a completely serious and honest face. Then a smile twitched in the corner of his mouth. "If I could steal one for her, I probably would, but since I sparkled your interest, I follow your lead."

"You know I want to nail them as much as you do, don't you?"

"Yes, I know Peter. Relax." Neal obviously saw the doubt in Peter's eyes, because he continued: "What reason do I have to rush ahead, Peter? It's not that she'll die next week. Relax. We'll find a new angle on this on Monday."

Peter did relax. At least a little. He rose.

"I'll drive you home."

"Thanks."

As they walked to the car Neal said:

"Can I stick around your house when you tell Elizabeth?"

"No," Peter replied. "As a matter of fact, if you even come near Elizabeth before I told her, you'll go back to prison."

The kid laughed. Yes, the young man did trust him that it was just the joke Peter meant it to be. In an odd way, Peter felt honored. He had chased Neal and put him in prison twice. Neal had reasons to hate him. But instead, the kid saw the person behind the chase and the cuffing, and saw a man who did his job and did it well. He had never been a representative of an evil government in Neal's eyes. He had been a personal challenge.

Neal walked inside his apartment and saw Mozzie at the table, playing chess with himself. He scanned the board.

"Byrne vs. Bobby Fischer, 1956."

"Very good," his friend answered without enthusiasm. "Who won?"

"Fischer. Sacrificed his queen on move 17." Neal watched Moz. "You all right?"

"The charity rescinded its offer to June's granddaughter."

"What?!"

"Yup."

Neal felt a rise of panic. Even if the charity was dirty, they offered a kidney that would save the girl's life. Now that option was gone.

"God," he mumbled. "They say why?"

"They say they found a more urgent recipient." He said it with a tone of sarcasm like he did not believe a word of it. Neal sat down by the table.

"And you…?"

"Yes, I scouted the clinic," Moz confirmed, still with his eyes on the chessboard. "Something's got them spooked. Employees have been throwing files into the garbage all day."

"You see what the files were?"

"I couldn't. It's pretty upscale. Private security everywhere." They both sighed in unison. Mozzie turned his eyes from the board to him.

"Any idea what's got them rattled?"

Neal had an idea and hoped he was wrong. He produced his phone and walked out on the rooftop patio. Peter picked up the phone on the second signal.

"Yeah?"

"It's me. Wondering if you looked into that clinic yet."

"I had the Bureau put in a request for their financial records. Why?"

Neal just wanted to scream and tell Peter what an idiot he had been. But it would not help. Done was done and now they had to deal with the consequences.

"No. I'm just checking. Thanks. Why is Elizabeth laughing?"

"No idea," Peter replied. "Talk to you later."

Neal hung up and turned back inside.

"The FBI asked for copies of their financial records."

"That explains it," Mozzie nodded. "I'd be doctoring my books right now too."

Neal sat down. He had been so sure he would do what Peter said this time, do it right. But this was not right. June's granddaughter might die because Peter did it 'right'.

"We have to get into that clinic," he told Moz. "See what they're trying to get rid of."

His friend did not even blink.

"Have a plan?"

Neal smiled. No, not yet. But he would. Tomorrow was Saturday. The clinic was within his radius. Now it was time to do this his way.

"Honey?" Peter heard El calling from downstairs.

"Yeah?" he answered and hurried down.

"What is this?" she asked and he saw her holding the Melissa Calloway's business card. She had found it in his suit when she was arranging for the dry-cleaning.

"I was gonna talk to you about that," Peter said, preparing himself mentally for one of their few arguments. He sat down. "That is part of an undercover job I was working on. And part of the cover was that I had to talk to another woman."

"You must've been quite the conversationalist," El pointed out and showed him the back of the card where Calloway had written her number.

"I had to flirt with her, so Neal could get closer to the target."

"Isn't it usually the other way around?"

"She chose me," he answered truthfully.

"You had to seduce another woman?" she asked with a tone as if he had gone to bed with someone else.

"No! No. I had— just had drinks with her." El turned her head away and looked like she would start to cry. Oh, no. This was going all wrong. "Nothing happened, El. I swear."

The way she sat with the business card covering her mouth… No tears…

"Are you laughing?" Peter asked, perplexed. His wife began to giggle. "You're laughing," Peter sighed. "You're laughing."

He guessed he should feel hurt. And part of him did. But a rather small part. He had felt like Alice in Wonderland and totally awkward.

"You had to flirt?" El asked, laughing. "You hate flirting."

"I know. And now I remember why."

"What did you say to her?"

"I said that she looked thirsty." That got her to fold herself double of laugher. "It worked."

"Oh, please tell me there's surveillance video of this. I gotta see this."

Peter hoped not. His phone rang in his pocket. He rose and looked at the screen. It was Neal.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"It's me," the kid said. "Wondering if you looked into that clinic yet."

"I had the Bureau put in a request for their financial records. Why?"

"No, I'm just checking. Thanks. Why is Elizabeth laughing?"

"No idea. Talk to you later." He ended the call. He was not going to give Neal any more to have fun about. El was quite enough at the moment.

An hour later he called back. Neal answered right away.

"Has Elizabeth stopped laughing?" was the first thing he said.

"Yeah, finally, I was just wondering why you asked about the clinic."

"Like I said, I was just checking. I said I wanted to do this your way, and I just asked if you had because it seemed to me as something an FBI agent would do."

"That's right." Still, it was something he had called him about a Friday night, at home. Well, why not?

"Elizabeth was laughing because you told her, right?" the kid asked and Peter could hear him grin.

"Keep your nose to your own business, kid," he snapped back. "What are you doing?"

"And I can of course not ask you to keep your nose to your own business, right?" Neal asked and Peter heard the playfulness in the tone.

"No."

"Well, for your information, I'm eating dinner, at home, with a friend, and a bottle of fine wine."

"That's nice. See you on Monday, Neal."

"See you then, Peter."


	11. From another angle

If it was something Mozzie really excelled in it was in being an annoying, loud-mouthed bastard you just wanted to get rid of. Neal knew many times that his friend had got what he wanted just because of this talent. Where Neal used his charm, Mozzie used the opposite. And by small means, Moz this time also appeared crazy when Neal wheeled him inside the Howser Clinic in a wheelchair.

Half-dressed, with the glasses askew and with a constant flow of words that did not make much sense, Neal guessed Moz did actually enjoy himself.

"Promise I'll never even think about going up in a tall building again. Oh, God. Please don't let me die."

Neal parked Moz in front of the reception desk and the poor receptionist he was now about to con.

"Hi. I'm here to drop off a patient." Neal had put his glasses on since he knew it made him look more serious, more legitimate. It was nuts really, that glasses had that effect, but when you were about to con someone, you used people's general presumptions in your favor. That counted for his white doctor's coat as well.

"Fists with your toes. I'm a cop," Moz yelled.

"Uhm... Mental Health Services doesn't have anyone scheduled to come in today," the receptionist said, checking her computer.

"See you take this under advisement, jerkweed!" Moz answered to that, talking to some invincible person beside him.

"Right. They wouldn't have said anything," Neal said and leaned closer, using that seductive tone who worked so well on most people. "This is a bit sensitive. The mayor asked for it to be handled quietly." Neal continued to whisper: "It's his nephew. I can't exactly give you his name. But he thinks he's—"

"Yippee ki-yay, mother—"

"Bruce!" Neal warned his crazy patient. "Bruce."

"Just a fly in the ointment, Hans," Mozzie replied and began to wheel around in his wheelchair.

"Gotta get him to see Dr. Westlake," Neal insisted.

"I'll ring him now."

"Hold on! Hold on. My patient sees you making a call, he might get upset." That theory had as many holes as Swiss cheese, but it could not be helped. "Think you're alerting bad guys. I'll just take him to Dr. Westlake myself. It's Room 207, right?"

"Right," the receptionist agreed, glancing in the man in the wheelchair going around in circles.

"Great. On your feet, Bruce. Come on." They walked towards the staircase. "Thank you," he smiled towards the receptionist.

"Welcome to the party, pal," Moz added.

"Don't oversell it," Neal whispered. Moz walked towards the front door and Neal guided him passed the security guard and up the stairs.

"Nice work, Moz. You can quit shaking now," he whispered.

"I'm not acting. I hate hospitals."

A man passed them walking downstairs and he sneezed.

"Now I have what he has," Moz pointed out.

Down in a corridor, they heard a 'Dr. Westlake, call reception. Dr. Westlake, call reception.' That was faster than Neal had hoped for, but it was a big building and they kept away from the psychiatric ward, so it would still take some time for anyone who searched for them to find them.

They glanced around a corner and a janitor pushed a large bin for recycled paper out into the corridor and parked it next to another, brimful. This was the corridor that Powell ought to have his room.

"Looks like a waste of some perfectly good files," Mozzie mumbled.

"All right, I'm going in," Neal said when the janitor moved into the next room. Mozzie nodded. On his way into Powell's office, Neal saw him take a janitor jacket hanging on one of the bins.

Neal scanned the office. The patient's examination bed was not interesting. He started with the drawers, but all he found there were regular patient files.

On the little table between two armchairs was a file, but it did not contain anything interesting.

A laptop was on a table, but it was password protected. If he did not find anything else he would take it along.

He sat down by Powell's desk and browsed through his papers. On the floor stood a briefcase. He placed it on the desk. It was locked of course, but the good doctor had paper-clips. He had it open in less than ten seconds. It was so easy. Neal wondered they anyone even bothered to lock.

The top paper inside caught his attention.

He stared at a list of donors, with names and addresses. And they were all major players in the city.

From outside the corridor, he heard 'Paging security to Dr. Powell's office. Paging security to Dr. Powell's office.' He was short on time. He wrote 'from Jimmy Burger' on top of a list of names and blood types and rushed to the fax by the office door. He keyed the number to Peter's own fax and hoped it was still connected. He had never seen Peter used it.

He pressed send when two orderlies burst in. The first grabbed him by his clothes.

"Stop that fax!" he called to the other.

"Don't move," he ordered Neal as he jammed up against the wall.

"I'm borrowing Dr. Powell's fax machine," Neal tried but the paper was yanked out of it.

"Come here." He was moved over to the examination table in the corner of the office. The orderly scanned him up and down then he grinned.

"Whoever you are, you're not a doctor," he stated with certainty. "Take the coat off him," he said to the other guy who yanked at it so hard that the buttons flew.

"Hey! Take it easy!" Neal protested.

"Who are you?" the man asked, taking a new grip on the front of his shirt. There was nothing he could say that would improve his situation, so he kept quiet. He was happy he had left his consultant ID at home. He was not there in FBI business and bringing them in officially would definitely put him back in prison.

The man holding him glared at him.

"Frisk him," he told the other orderly.

It did not take long before he found the anklet.

"What's this?"

Neal had not resisted the frisking, but he had decided to not say another word.

The man holding him smirked and exchanged a look with the other one.

"As you wish," he said and pushed Neal backward onto the bunk, still holding the front of his shirt. He held him in place as the other guy grabs his wrist and restrained it with the padded cuffs connected to the bed. It was something for violent patients, not for burglars caught in the act. They locked both his hands and his feet.

Neal had been restrained before. Not like this, but the feeling of helplessness was not new. He could handle it well enough to not show that he was scared, and keep his mouth shut. And, besides, those locks were no match to pick. They were made for patients, not high-risk prisoners. It was interesting however that they did not just call the police.

The orderly in command walked to the desk and picked up the phone.

"We have a problem," he said after introducing himself. "We've got a man restrained. He was in your office."

There was a pause and then:

"He won't say. He has some kind of tracker on his ankle. And he was going through your files. We figured you'd wanna know before we involved the authorities."

The man glared at him as he replied on the phone.

"Understood."

He hung up and turned to the other man.

"Get a nurse with something relaxing in here."

Neal felt an urge to come with threats about the FBI but if he posed a threat searching through the office, talk about the FBI would do no good. He started working on the restraint on his right wrist instead.

A nurse came in with a syringe. Without any hint of humanity or care, she jammed it in his arm, pressing its contents in his bloodstream.

"This is to help you relax."

"I hope there's something fun in there, Nurse Ratched," Neal hissed, with a mixture of fury and terror. He had been restrained many times but never had someone used the opportunity to drug him.

He took a deep breath. What would happen now? What had they given him? He did not feel like falling asleep. The nurse and the orderlies left. In an effort to keep the effect of the drug away Neal did what he was best at: he tried to free himself.

"Honey, you expecting a fax?" El asked him.

"No." Peter looked up from his briefcase. "I didn't even know that thing was still plugged in."

El pulled it out.

"Jimmy Burger? Who's Jimmy Burger?"

Peter dropped the file he was holding back into the briefcase and hurried up to El.

"That's Neal," he said as he pulled the paper from her hands. Oh, no! An interrupted fax. And not due to sending error. But because someone yanked the paper out of the fax. Neal could be in trouble. Was likely in trouble. He dived for his laptop only to remember that he left it at the office. It was supposed to be a work-free weekend.

He thumbed the number on his phone and marched across the floor, unable to stand still.

"Electronic Monitoring Compliance Unit," a woman answered on the other end.

"This is Burke, FBI. I need the location of Detention Tracking Anklet 9305-Alpha. Neal Caffrey."

"One moment, please."

"Is Neal in trouble?" El asked.

"Yeah. He's in a lot of trouble." Probably in trouble where he was and even more in trouble when Peter found him. 'Jimmy Burger'. Yeah, Neal was in trouble alright.

"Agent Burke, we have him located at 626 William Street," the woman returned to him.

That address ran a bell. He pulled out the card from Melissa Calloway. It was the address for the Howser Clinic.

"Caffrey. I told him not to go to that clinic!" He threw the card down on the table. "I told him! But he's Neal. He doesn't think!"

Him being in that building without authorization was him breaking the law, but that had never troubled the kid. It troubled Peter though! He grabbed his suit jacket and put it on.

"They're gonna send him to prison for this," he told his wife. "What I have to do is call Judge Chivero, get a warrant."

It would go fast, hopefully fast enough to get Neal out in one piece, just to cuff him and send him back to prison.

"Why don't you just get somebody to, I don't know, show you the place?" El took the card from Calloway. "If she invites you in, that's okay, right?"

Peter let out a breath. It would go faster than a warrant, and… Peter could decide what to do with Neal later, once he got him out.

"Okay." He punched the number and waited.

"This is Melissa."

Peter got cold feet and if it had not been for Neal he would have hung up and pretended it never happened.

"Hey… Melissa…"

It felt like his tongue was unable to move. El took the phone from his hand and placed it on the table surface.

"Hello?"

El gestured for him to continued talking.

"This is Dr. Tannenbaum from the tennis club," he said to his smiling wife. "How are you?"

"Actually, I'm going into the office for Dr. Powell."

"Perfect. You said I could swing by anytime, and I'm gonna be in the neighborhood."

"Oh, I'm sorry. But today is not looking good."

El pressed mute.

"Tell her you need to see her. Tell her you can't stop thinking about her." She un-muted the phone.

Peter muted it.

"This is a test, isn't it?"

El gestured for the phone.

"Doctor? Are you there?"

He un-muted the phone without a reply from El.

"Yeah. I need to see you. I can't stop thinking about you." El made a gesture for 'perfect'.

"Is that right?"

Peter had no clue what to answer to that. El sighed and pressed mute again.

"Okay, compliment her. Tell her that you've never met someone like her. You're intrigued."

She un-muted.

"I've never met someone like you… before," Peter said and felt stiff like a tree trunk. "I'm intrigued."

"Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss those magic hands of yours," Melissa answered with a tone that said more than the words. El frowned. Peter pressed mute.

"'Magic hands'?" she asked.

"I was a chiropractor."

"Really?"

"Doctor?" was heard from the phone and Peter un-muted.

"Yes?"

"I've gotta run. But if you're really interested in seeing the clinic, I can get you a pass. You could come by later, we could grab a drink."

"Perfect. See you then."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Me too, bye."

Peter hung up.

"Perfect!" he said and smiled at his wife who sat with her arms crossed watching him.

"That was definitely a test," he said. "I know you're angry with me, but I've got to go. Neal's in trouble."

She nodded and he kissed her before he rushed to the door.


	12. Hi Buddy

Peter walked up to the reception desk of the Howser Clinic. There were no alarms, no panic or rush, everything seemed normal.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"Yeah…" he looked around, up the stairs, and saw Calloway. "Oh, there she is. Melissa!"

She stopped and stared. Then squeezed on a smile.

"Dr. Tannenbaum. You're early." She began to walk down the stairs.

"I couldn't wait to see you," Peter smiled at her as he hurried up the stairs to meet her, to be passed the lobby and the exit.

"Well, I'm flattered. But this really isn't a good time. You don't mind waiting until this evening?"

"I couldn't wait," Peter insisted and knew he broke any rule of flirting, but it was beyond that now. He needed to get inside, with some form of permission. And if he made her feel awkward it was only fair considering what she did to him last time they met.

Her phone rang.

"Excuse me," she said and answered the call "Yes?"

The woman looked the other way as she spoke on the phone as most people do. Peter used it and passed her, continuing up the stairs and out of sight. He turned into an empty corridor.

"Neal?" he asked in a low voice and walked down the corridor "Neal?"

Did he hear someone sing? He listened by a door. No, not that one. He continued down the corridor. The singing returned. Just to die out again. Was someone drunk at the office? The voice returned and by the sound of it, he had passed the source of it. Peter backtracked and pushed a door open.

What he saw inside made his jaw drop. Neal was strapped to a bunk! And he was singing! Somehow he had never thought of Neal as a singing person.

"Oh, my God. What did they do to you?" Peter mumbled.

Neal lifted his head at the sound of his voice.

"Hi, buddy!" he expressed with a happy smile. Not the smile of someone caught and in trouble. And 'buddy'? The kid was high as a kite.

"Neal."

"Hi."

Peter let go of the door and made sure it closed behind him. He hurried up to him and wanted to check if the kid was hurt in any way. But he did not get far before the kid started to sing again.

"Hey! Shh, shh!" he urged and Neal fell silent. He did not smell of alcohol, that much he could tell. Well, it mattered little. He saw no blood or bruises. He had to get him out of there.

"We have to get you out of these restraints."

"Oh, you mean these?" the kid said and lifted his arms and shook his legs and he was free. "What? I never met a lock I couldn't pick. Except, my anklet."

So, Neal had tried to pick his anklet. No surprise there. But why had he picked the locks on these restraints and remained where he was?

Had he picked them to be prepared? Or just because he could but had no idea what to do next? In his state, it was just as well that he had remained where he was.

"All right, come on!" Peter urged and got his arm around his shoulders getting him to sit up.

"I don't know what it is—" Neal continued incoherently. "You're strong."

"Yeah," Peter agreed. Whatever.

"You're strong."

Peter made himself ready to get him off the bed. He pulled the kid's legs over the edge so he could get into standing.

"One—"

"Oh, I got it," Neal said. "I got it." Then he rose and fell like a log to the floor. Oh, great! Now he had to get a grown man off a floor instead, and fast! Peter just wanted to yell at the kid.

Neal rolled over to his back.

"Ooops…" he said as if he was not sure how he ended up down there.

"Okay, give me your hands," Peter urged and rolled his eyes as Neal held them out as if he was about to get cuffed. He took a grip around his wrists and pulled him up to sitting, slung Neal's arm across his shoulder, held it in place with one hand and the other around the kid's shoulders, and with the help of his knees, managed to get the human rag-doll somewhat to his feet.

Then he got the door opened and just hoped for the best. The corridor was deserted and he dragged Neal out of the office. He soon realized he would not be able to get far this way. He made his way down yet another empty corridor and opened a random door. It was a conference room with a grand view over New York.

He tried to make Neal land gently, but when there was no support from the kid he more or less dropped him on the carpet. He pulled at him, got him into a sitting position, leaning against the wall under the windows.

"I cannot believe you!" Peter hissed. "Why would you do something like this?"

"Peter, I've done soooo many worse things that you don't even know about," Neal replied. Why had he expected to have some reasonable conversation?

"Okay. Just shut up," Peter urged him. He did not want to know. He did not want to put the kid in more trouble than he already was. But curiosity took the best of him.

"Like what things?" He had made a promise not to frame the kid and that was a promise he would keep. What he heard now he would never tell. He was just too intrigued.

"You remember the Antioch Manuscripts?"

What? Peter stared. He had never connected Neal with that theft.

"You took those?"

The kid smiled and shrugged. High on drugs and still he did not outright admit to anything.

"How?"

"Carrier pigeons. Think about it," he tapped his finger at his head. This was not the Neal he knew with every gesture and facial expression under control.

"Who cares? It's not what's important," Neal continued. "It's not about money. It's about people."

"Good. You're gonna be spending a lot of quality time with people in orange jumpsuits once I get you out." Damn kid! First, he steals a painting and now he made a break-in. And made a videotape empty… An act that made Peter keep his job.

"All right…" Neal's face grew serious all of a sudden. "I'm going down once they see those security tapes of me breaking in here."

Even a drugged Neal Caffrey could figure that out, but it had not stopped him. But it was not fair. Neal had done it to save a kid who needed a new kidney. And they had restrained and drugged him, both illegal doings.

"There's surveillance cameras?" Peter mumbled. Was that the only thing to prove Neal had been here? Neal had done it for him once.

"Hey, before I go back, you should know this," Neal went on blurting and Peter sighed. "Out of all the people in my life, Mozzie, even Kate… You're the only one."

"The only one what?"

"The only person in my life I trust."

What had life done to this kid to only have a fed who put him in prison to trust? This smart, confident conman was so vulnerable, so alone, Peter thought. He was so easy to love and had so hard to let anybody in, that even Kate was left out of the trust.

He was about to ruffle the kid's hair but it felt all wrong. With a sigh, his hand slid down on the kid's shoulder. Very well. They could not sit here forever. Peter made up his mind.

He rose and rolled one of the chairs over and produced his cuffs. Neal made a face when Peter locked one of the cuffs around his wrist and the other to the chassis of the chair.

"Don't. Pick. This," he told the kid with emphasis on every word. To lock the guy to a chair was more of a reminder than a real restraint. A radiator pipe had been better but if Neal at least accepted and stayed put it did not matter. Peter just wanted him to remain where he was and remember that he was supposed to just sit there and wait.

Peter left him and hurried through the corridors hoping to not cross paths with Calloway. He wondered what he would say if he did. Keep his cover as Tannenbaum? Neal was quick to produce a name for him, but 'Tannanbaum'? Was 'Smith' too common? But 'Christmas tree'? Was it even a proper name?

A security guard left a desk and Peter saw a screen with security footage in front of the now empty chair. Bingo. He saw an image that was likely from the room where he found Neal, but two-thirds of the room was in a blind spot. Only the desk was within frame. Said a lot about what they did that they wanted to hide. He only saw one recorder. Well, less tape to meddle with for him.

Peter pushed the tape out of the machine and pushed in another one and started the recording again.

Then he left and returned to the conference room where Neal remained where he left him.

He showed him the tape.

"What is that?"

"Surveillance tape."

Neal's eyes turned big as plates and his mouth was agape in a face of surprise that was almost comical if it had not been so utterly genuine that it was touching.

The surprise turned into a frown.

"Peter?"

Time to go. Peter unlocked Neal and pulled him to his feet. The kid felt a little steadier now. Hopefully, he could use his legs at least a bit.

"Let's go."

"You stole that for me?" Neal asked.

He swung the young man's arm over his shoulders again and took a grip around his waist with the other.

"Yeah. It's a regular Kodak moment."

By some miraculous luck Peter found the corridor empty, but he had no idea how to get them out. Then Neal pointed out that fire escapes were usable for just escapes too. They usually trigged an alarm but it could not be helped. They got out that way and down a gray concrete staircase that ended in the garage. Before anyone saw them, Peter had Neal dumped in the passenger seat of his car.

He fastened the kid's seatbelt.

"No, please," Neal pleaded. "I'll not run."

It took Peter a second to realize what he was talking about.

"It's a seatbelt, Neal. I'm not restraining you. You can still move."

"Yeah… I can… Thanks, Peter."

"I cannot believe you!" Peter said. "Why would you do something like this?"

Neal smiled. Did Peter complain about this? He was doing it to save a kid and he had not stolen anything, and it had all been so easy.

"Peter, I've done soooo many worse things that you don't even know about."

"Okay. Just shut up," Yeah. That was what he said. But Peter did want to know, Neal knew that. And he wanted to tell Peter, so very much. Always had. Get the agent's admiration.

"Like what things?" Peter asked, at last.

"You remember the Antioch Manuscripts?"

"You took those?"

Neal smiled and shrugged. He knew it was not a good thing to admit to a crime.

"How?"

"Carrier pigeons. Think about it." It had been so smart using pigeons. No one expected that. And they were reliable. If you picked them with care, that was. And he had. But what had that heist gained him? This, what he was doing now was so much more important!

"Who cares? It's not what's important. It's not about money. It's about people."

"Good. You're gonna be spending a lot of quality time with people in orange jumpsuits once I get you out."

"All right…" Peter's word sunk in. The tone in them. The frustration. "I'm going down once they see those security tapes of me breaking in here."

He was going back to prison. He had tried to save the little girl's life and Peter had caught him. Peter had also saved him from the bad guys. Peter had to take him back to prison but that was okay. Peter had come for him. He was a man with the best of hearts.

"Hey, before I go back, you should know this," Neal told Peter. He had to know. "Out of all the people in my life, Mozzie, even Kate… You're the only one."

"The only one what?"

"The only person in my life I trust."

Silence settled between them.

Peter grabbed his wrist and Neal felt the familiar feeling of a handcuff. Oh, Peter… Why do you have to be so formal? I come with you, you know that.

Peter's eyes met his.

"Don't. Pick. This."

Then Peter left. Neal saw his hand was cuffed to a chair. It was something ridiculous about it. He should show Peter he could be nice without being cuffed. Maybe Peter would never need to cuff him again.

But Peter had told him not to pick the lock. They were so easy to pick. But if he slipped out of it? That would not be picking. It would be slipping. He would slip out and just sit there and Peter should know he never needed to put cuffs on him again.

Somehow it did not slip off.

Maybe he had not tightened the muscles in his wrist when it was put on.

He never did when it was Peter. Peter was always considerate. And Peter had the right to cuff him. Peter had cuffed him now. Maybe it was just as well. He could tell Peter he was in no need of cuffs instead. He would follow Peter back to prison. It was as it should be. He belonged in prison. He was a thief and a conman.

Peter, somehow, saw good in him. Liked him though he did bad things. Peter was so like him, really. Just that Peter followed the law. Why could he not follow the law, just as Peter did? Then they could have been the best of pals for real.

Peter turned up and held something in his hand.

"What's that?"

"Surveillance tape."

Surveillance tape? Peter? But Peter followed the law… Had he…?

"Peter?"

He heard the cuffs open and Peter pulled him to his feet.

"Let's go."

"You stole that for me?"

Could they be best pals after all? Had Peter broken the law to save him?

"Yeah. It's a regular Kodak moment."

Neal followed Peter through through the endless corridors. Then Peter stopped and Neal saw a fire escape.

"You know the fire is there only to keep everyone from using them."

"What?"

"Fire escapes. They are good for any escapes. I know."

To Neal's delight, Peter took the fire escape. It was endless with stairs down. Somehow he made his feet work. At least from time to time. And then he felt the fresh air in his face. No… Not fresh… But he was free now.

His handler maneuvered him down on a chair. No, not a chair, it was too soft. He felt straps across his body.

"No, please," he pleaded. "I'll not run." Peter did not need to restrain him. Even if he would take him back to prison.

"It's a seatbelt, Neal," Peter said. "I'm not restraining you. You can still move."

Neal blinked and saw a familiar interior of a car. It made sense. He was in a car.

"Yeah… I can… Thanks, Peter."

Peter got in on the driver's side and the car got moving.

"Going to prison?"

"No, we're going to my place."

A warm feeling spread through Neal. Peter and Elizabeth. Such wonderful people. He wished he had had brothers and sisters. They could never be, but it would have been nice.

"Can I have some of that chicken?" he asked Peter.

"What?"

"Ellen. She makes a wonderful chicken. Most things she cooks is tasty but that chicken is the best."

"Who's Ellen?"

Neal frowned. Had he said 'Ellen'?

"El… Elizabeth. Makes nice chicken."

"We'll see about that."

He was with Peter, his best buddy. Peter had saved him from the bad guys. Neal felt safe and comfortable and fell asleep.

When Peter parked outside his home he had to shake Neal awake.

"Com'on, kid. I need your help here."

"My help, Peter?"

"Yes, Neal, I need you to use your feet. We need to get you inside."

Peter guessed Neal did best to walk on his feet but he felt he more or less dragged him up the stairs and inside the house. Inside, he dumped him on the living-room sofa.

El came to meet them.

"Hello Elizabeth," Neal greeted her with a tired, happy, childish smile. "Can I have some chicken?"

"He's been drugged," Peter told her. "I tell you later. Now I think the best thing he could do is go to sleep again."

"I'll make the guest room ready."

"No, I won't be able to get him up the stairs. He can sleep on the couch."

She looked like she was about to object but when she saw that Neal was already half asleep, singing for himself, she nodded. She sat down beside him.

"Neal, sweety, can you take your shirt off?"

Peter stared at her. What?

"Neal, listen to me," she continued. "You're gonna sleep on this couch and sleeping in a shirt is not comfortable. Can you take it off?"

"Alright," the kid agreed, but his fingers did not.

"Has I lost the buttons?" he asked.

"No, sweety, let me help you."

Peter breathed and grit his teeth. He was pretty certain there was a trimmed body under that shirt and though he knew he was in shape himself he was not twenty-eight any longer. Neal was. And somehow he got the feeling that El would not mind a peek in front of him after his call to Melissa.

To his relief, he saw that Neal had a T-shirt under. Neal lay down and she helped him take his shoes off.

"Just don't stand there," El rebuked him. "Go and get a blanket for him."

He walked upstairs, got a big, blue warm blanket that El tucked him in with when he was down in the flu a few years ago. El just ripped it out of his hands when he got down and tucked Neal in. The kid seemed to sleep in an instant.

"Will he be alright?" she asked.

"He'll probably sleep an hour or two and be on his feet before dinner. Can you make it for three?"

"Absolutely. You can have some as well."


	13. Kidney failure

When Neal awoke he was clear in his head again, but it took him a moment to sort his thoughts and realize where he was. He heard familiar voices and the sounds and the smells could only come from one place in the world: the Burke's. He opened his eyes and saw Peter sit by the dining-table, probably doing his crosswords.

He turned his head and the hangover from the drugs hit him like a sledgehammer.

"Oh, you're awake," he heard Peter say. Neal grunted, closed his eyes and just wanted to fall asleep again.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For not putting me back in prison."

"Thank El. If it hadn't been for her I couldn't have any legal reason to snoop around that place." Then Peter continued to talk but Neal zoomed out, just wanting to be knocked out and sound asleep until the headache was over.

Peter must have realized this because he fell silent. At least for a short moment. Too short, according to Neal.

"Why did you go in there?"

"FBI got them rattled. They pulled back the offer to June's granddaughter!"

He had meant to sound angry, but he did not muster any energy. Peter did not comment though, so maybe he got the picture anyway.

"How much do you remember since they drugged you?"

Neal frowned. He had memories alright. Too wonderful and to much candy-land considering how he felt now.

"I remember you saved me. And cuffed me. To a chair," he mumbled. "After I said I trusted you. And you stole a videotape for me."

A memory of something flew by and his eyes flew up watching Peter.

"Did I confess to anything?!"

Peter glanced at him.

"No. Don't worry." Neal relaxed and closed his eyes again. "Just so you know, Neal, I won't make a habit of giving you this kind of slack, alright?"

He nodded again.

"I know, Peter. You know I wouldn't have blamed you if you put me back."

Steps were heard from the staircase and Elizabeth came down.

"Oh, you're awake. How do you feel?"

"Headache."

"Poor you. I'll get you some ice."

He heard her rumble in the kitchen and come back.

"Here you go," she said and Neal felt something cold against his forehead. He grabbed the bag of ice and moved it around. Elizabeth sat down beside him on the sofa.

To his surprise Neal found himself liking to be taken care of. In any other situation, he would have been terrified to show weakness. But here he felt safe. Peter had already seen him in his low-points and had never used that advantage or mocked him, and Elizabeth she just seemed to enjoy taking care of other people.

"Oh, my head is killing me." Neal knew he sounded over dramatic but he felt miserable.

"Neal, are you all right?" Elizabeth wondered.

"Hey, what about me?" Peter asked.

"There's some dishes that need to be washed, Mr. Magic Hands," Neal heard her reply with a crisp to the tone. "Do you want some more ice?" Neal nodded. "Okay. I'll get some." She took the bag and disappeared into the kitchen.

Peter sat down on the sofa table next to him.

"You better have found something."

Neal grinned.

"I saw a list full of wealthy clients. All willing to pay for organs if the time comes."

"Be nice if we can prove it."

"Maybe we can. There was another list. Hundreds of names and blood types."

Peter turned and grabbed a paper, held it up to him.

"Your fax. That's what this is."

Neal stared at the miserable sight in Peter's hand. It had been a long list.

"Yeah. They must be the donors Powell has been targeting. Only four names came through?"

"Four's enough," Peter ensured him. "We can talk to them."

Before Monday afternoon Peter saw with delight that the FBI could be a piece of effective machinery when needed. He called for Neal and Jones and five other good agents and gathered them in the conference room. He spread the files among them.

"Dr. Wayne Powell," he said and put up his photo on the TV. "We suspect him of selling organs." He walked from the TV to the other end of the table. Somehow his favorite spot. "Powell doesn't get his donors from overseas. He gets them from charity cases for Hearts Wide Open. Each of these four donors passed through Powell's clinics for various treatments. Their blood types were put on a master list which Powell pulled from whenever a more affluent patient needed a transplant."

"What's his connection to Doctoral Global Initiative?" Jones asked. "Why so many trips to India?"

"Remember, Powell has nephrosis. He's only got one kidney and he needs a new one. Not just anyone. A zero mismatch. Powell's been looking all over the world for this. The money from this charity scam is what sponsored and financed his search."

People paid to his charity so he could go on an organ hunt for himself only. Peter wanted to grab this guy by the collar.

"The kidney donors you guys tracked down, how much did he offer them?" Jones asked.

"Ten thousand dollars each. But then he flipped them for 200,000." Peter saw eyebrows raised. "We can't prove this. The donors won't testify. I'm gonna need out-of-the-box thinking from you guys on this one."

Neal's hand flew up at once.

Peter sighed and waited for someone else long the table to come up with an idea. He knew Caffrey well enough to know that anything could pop out of his mouth. Legal, sane solutions as well as something utterly illegal, but most likely in that gray zone where Peter did not want to be, but others might. He did not want a debate about gray zones and within the team, he did not want Neal to be associated with anything but legal solutions.

"Anyone?" he asked, but no other was interested. "Caffrey, let's have it."

"If we can trace the money Powell's made from his organ sales we can bring him down, right?"

"Right."

"So let's make him spend that money."

"For what?" Jones asked

"The thing he wants most."

Peter stared at him.

"A zero mismatch," his handler said. "The perfect kidney."

Neal nodded.

"So you just call him and say you found him a kidney?" Peter asked.

"Well… yes, but we need him to be in a hurry and get him careless."

"How?"

Neal almost smiled at Peter's facial expression. That stare and that mouth as a tied-up sack. It meant that Peter thought Neal would suggest something that he had to consider if it was legal or not, and likely not, since it was Neal suggesting it.

"Let him think his only kidney is failing him," Neal continued.

Peter kept glaring at him with that stern look. Then he let go and turned to Jones beside him.

"Jones, what are the symptoms of kidney failure?"

Jones made a search on his laptop. Neal rose to get a better view and Peter joined.

"Major symptoms include headaches, weight loss, skin irritation, chills, fatigue, and…" Jones lingered and made a face. "Ooh. Oh, that's not pretty."

"How many symptoms can we give him in a week?" Peter asked and Neal felt his heart pound. Did the senior agent buy his idea just like that?

"Three should do it," Neal said.

"That'll be enough?"

"Guy this worried about it, it'll be enough." If you wait for trouble to come, you see it when it comes, alright. Blindly.

"Okay. What do we start with?"

"Let's see the workup on him," Neal requested and Jones handed him a file.

"I mean, one of the symptoms is headaches," Jones said.

"We can swap his glasses," Peter said.

"I have a friend who wears glasses," Neal objected. "We swap them out, he'll know."

"Fatigue…" Peter continued.

"Weight loss," Neal said, reading the info on Powell. "According to his file, he dropped off a suit to have it dry-cleaned for an event this Tuesday night. The day before Powell's due in, we'll pick up his clothes and swap them out for a larger size. He'll think he's dropped a few pounds."

"Do you think that will work?" Jones was skeptical.

"If you pulled on a piece of clothes from your wardrobe and it was too big or too small, what would you think?"

"That I've got the wrong suit back from the dry-cleaners."

"We have to make sure that the one we leave is exactly the same, but bigger. Remember, this guy is just waiting for his kidney to give up on him."

"Alright," Peter nodded and turned to one of the agents. "Get us some dinner in here, will you. This will take a while. Is everyone okay with Chinese?"

"I was more thinking pizza," Neal said which made both Jones and Peter smile. So Jones had been the agent watching on the other side of the glass during his interrogation. Well, it was no surprise, and Neal did not mind. He liked Jones.

"No, we need the table's surface. Chinese," Peter said to the agent, who left.

They took a break and returned when the food arrived. The room buzzed of enthusiasm and Neal loved it. It had been his idea and Peter had accepted his suggestion. Not only had he managed to raise a notch with Peter, but he had also proven himself an asset for the team. Except for Jones and Peter, the other agents did their best to keep him out of the loop. No one was rude or unpleasant, but they did not trust him to do his job.

Where was Lauren Cruz by the way? Neal could not say he missed her. She was the only one who was openly hostile.

Neal took a box of food and chopsticks and sat down on the windowsill, legs crossed. He caught Peter and Jones staring.

"What?"

Peter gestured.

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Sit with your leg crossed, just like that."

Neal grinned. He was young and tried to keep his body flexible.

"You're both past thirty, right?"

Peter did not push it further. He took a box and a fork and ate.

"When we have his clothes, we'll give him his second problem," he addressed the group.

"Skin irritation," Jones said at once.

"How do we do that?" Neal asked.

"We've got a spray."

"You got an itching spray?" Neal found himself staring at Jones. He thought these things only existed in movies.

"We got a lot of things you don't know about," Peter said with a grin.

Neal watched his handler.

"Wow."

"What?" Peter asked.

"You're really enjoying this." This was a new side of the man he had not known about.

"No," Peter said and tried to get some food out of the box with a fork. "Maybe just a little," he admitted and the assembled giggled.

"We spray the clothes he fetches from the dry-cleaning," Jones said. "It'll take a few hours before he'll notice anything."

"Third symptom," Peter continued.

"That's gonna be the best one," Neal said.

"Jones, what did you say it was?"

"Blood in the urine," he replied and turned the screen towards Peter.

"Wow. How are we gonna induce that?" Peter wondered.

"Well, there are compounds…" Neal said.

"Drugs? No, no. No drugs."

"Not drugs, so much as food coloring, for the body." He remembered how he had got himself quite a scare after visiting Sweden once around Christmas and eaten a dish with plenty of beetroots.

"How do we make him take it?" Peter asked.

"He gets his groceries delivered, right?"

"Yup. We can put it in his cranberry juice?"

"Yeah," Neal agreed. "We inject it."

Peter glanced at him. It was probably a gray zone again. Maybe FBI agents were not allowed to inject beetroot juice in someone's food.

"Let's say I go along with it, then what?"

"Then Powell gets the bad news when he does number one."

"But he's a doctor, he'll do tests," one of the other agents said. "And those tests will prove he's okay."

"Yeah, but he'll likely go to another doctor to take them, and besides, it takes a few days to get the results. And I call him before he gets them."

Peter considered it all. He was not a man of rash decisions and Neal admired that.

"Alright. Let's do this," he said at last and Neal gave him a wide smile in return. "Jones, you organize his clothes and get that food coloring in place."

"It's beetroot juice, Peter, and no offense Jones, but I don't think you're the right guy to sneak it inside a bottle. We'll have to fix it when it's delivered, to make sure we color the right bottle, and we can't do a break-in to do it afterward."

"None offense taken," Jones replied. "I was thinking the same."

"So, who do you have in mind?" Peter asked.

"I have a friend…"

"Alright, fine."

Six days later, Neal took the phone dialed Powell's number. Jones started a soundtrack with background sounds.

"Yes?" came the reply.

"Dr. Powell, can you hear me?" Neal asked and tried to give the impression of a long-distance call. "It's Dr. Parker from DGI, remember?"

"I remember."

"Good, good. Listen, I'm in India, and I've got good news."

"Are you-? Are you saying that you have something for me?" The man sounded really miserable. It was amazing what the brain could do to a man who decided that he was ill.

"I'm saying you should buy a plane ticket right away," Neal answered.

There was a long pause.

"Dr. Powell, are you there?"

"Yes."

"Good," Neal said and gave him the information he needed. "Got it?"

"I got it. I'm coming on the next flight."

The call was ended and Neal gave Peter and Jones a smile.

"Okay, how are we gonna knock him out?" Peter asked.

"That won't be a problem. He takes sleeping pills before he flies. Give him a bottle of water to swallow them down."

"Jones, prep a bottle and go and pick him up."

Jones smiled and left. Neal got the impression that Jones enjoyed this prank on the good doctor quite a lot.


	14. India

Neal stood behind the Indian fabrics they hung on a clothesline as a curtain, separating Powell's room from the rest of the area. He listened to the Indian lady who made a very convincing angry, Hindi-speaking nurse and a very confused Powell who just woke up from Jones' water-bottle knockout.

"What's happening? Where am I?"

Those questions did not get any answers from the nurse, but Neal was certain Powell would think "India". After all, that was his destination when he stepped into that cab.

The nurse exited and seconds later Neal walked in. He was dressed in a simple blue doctor's garb with a stethoscope around his neck and a clipboard.

Powell's hands were on the dialysis machine beside his bed. The tubes from his arms led to it.

"Please don't touch that," Neal said. "The equipment here is very temperamental."

"What happened?"

"You went into renal failure during your flight. You landed in Manipur. We had to remove your kidney and place you on dialysis. But your body isn't tolerating it. Your blood pressure's dropping."

Neal knew he would never pass for a doctor if Powell really was interested in cross-examining him. He had been taught what to say, to sound plausible, but the important thing was to cause stress.

"Is the donor here?"

"He is. And he's curious about what kind of charitable contributions you can make."

Powell seemed to relax and even give him a faint smile.

"That's not gonna be a problem. I can get you a hundred thousand by tomorrow."

"Oh, I was thinking more along the lines of 30 million."

The good doctor's eyes flew wide open and Neal got a stare as if he had come from the Moon.

"Thirty million? Are you insane?"

"How much is your life worth to you, doctor?"

No, Neal did not feel bad at all. First of all, Powell would live through this, and secondly, if their 'nice little theories', to use Peter's words, were correct, this man had done the same thing and made people pay more than they could affort because they would die otherwise.

"You're shaking me down?"

"I'm asking a question."

"I can… I don't know…" Powell stuttered, "I can get you 2 million."

"This isn't a negotiation," Neal said, dead serious, and pulled the curtain aside, calling for the 'nurse'. She appeared.

"This machine should be free in the next hour," he told her as he turned to leave.

"Wait, wait, wait," the doctor objected. "Wait!"

And Neal waited.

"I have an account. There's not 30 million in there, but it's close. All right? I can have that money transferred anywhere you want."

"No. That'll raise flags."

"No, no, no. This account— This is— It's completely secure," Powell assured him, but Neal just looked at him. "What? All right… You know, it was set up to siphon money from my charity. It was designed to be untraceable. It's at New Reserve 774196B. Password's 'cranberry'."

Neal grinned.

"Then I have what I want." On tape, legally obtained, with the blessings of the FBI. "Let's see how quickly we can get you healthy again."

He left with the 'nurse' through the curtain. As he left he pulled the switch turning the 'dialysis machine' off. And the hot air fan which had given the room a hint of Indian temperature.

"Hey, Dr. Parker?" he heard Powell call for him "The machine stopped working." He smiled, pulled on a jacket and left the building. How long would it take before the good doctor noted that nothing happened then when the machine that was supposed to keep him alive did not work? Then he would take a closer look at the tubes that were connected to his veins and find out that there were no needles and no blood flowing. They were just taped to his arms.

Neal did not come all the way to the van before he was met by Peter and three agents in FBI jackets. Peter grinned all over his face.

"Damn it, Neal. You should have been an actor. That was worthy of an Oscar."

Neal grinned and tried not to blush of pride.

They walked back along the sidewalk towards where Powell would exit and came just in time to see him tumble out with his own clothes pulled in haste over his hospital garbs. The man stared at the street of Manhattan. Then he saw them approaching.

"Welcome back to New York, Dr. Powell," Peter said and showed his ID.

Neal pulled out his plastic sheriff's badge and showed it in the same way with a grin. It meant nothing to Powell, of course, and he had enough on his mind than wonder about the toy, but it meant something to Neal. This was a case he had brought to the FBI and where he had made it possible to capture the crook. And he had taken the star from Peter's cereals. A man he trusted completely.

Peter learned from the maid that June was not at home, that she was in the park. Peter walked towards Central Park. It was a too big park to just hope to bump into someone. He produced his phone and used the app to track Neal for the first time. Since he had left the computer at work and had to call the Marshals to track Neal, he had decided to use the app they had developed.

As Peter had suspected the blue dot on the map that was Neal was in the park too, and he hoped to find June at the same place.

He walked in the direction of Neal and soon he heard and saw girls playing soccer. Under a pergola was Neal watching the game with June by her side. June seemed to be a sweet lady, and though her husband had been a convict, his gut told him that June was good for Neal. She may not object to crimes but she seemed to fill the role of a mother in Neal's life. Someone who was there and loved him no matter what he did.

He walked up to them.

"Hi, Peter," Neal waved at him.

"Hi, Neal. June."

"Hello, Peter."

"Your granddaughter is playing?" Peter asked, watching the happy children. June nodded and pointed her out for him. The lady giggled with joy when Samantha made a goal.

"June, I want you to know we got Powell," he told her. "Once he tied himself to the account the rest of his operation came tumbling down."

"Thank you," June whispered, full of emotions.

"Tell her the best part," Neal said. So, the kid had not told her. His young convict must have guessed he would show up. He smiled.

"Samantha is back at her original spot on the list," Peter said and June put her hand over her mouth and seemed to fought tears. That kind of tears Peter did not mind. He was glad Neal had saved the news for him to tell. With the job he had, he needed the joy to make people happy too.

"In light of the scandal," Peter continued, "we were able to make calls to the Registry. Convince them to reexamine their position."

"She's pretty good," he said after a moment's pause.

"Yeah, she is," Neal agreed.

And now the girl had a brighter future.

"Let me know how the game turns out."

"Wait," June protested. "Aren't you staying?"

"No," Peter replied with a smile. "I've gotta pick up my wife. She just doesn't know it yet."

They all smiled and he left. When he looked back he saw June and Neal with their arms around each other, like a mother and a son. But somehow, Peter reflected, it was more like Neal was protecting June, than the other way around. The con-man was not a boy in need of protection. He needed love, and someone to care for and protect.

Peter drove home. El sat at their dining room table, working. They said their hellos. He made his preparations in the kitchen and then he took Satch out. While out in their garden he lit some candles. It was a clear night and no wind.

Then he walked into the kitchen, took the wine bottle he had prepared and two glasses in one hand and two lit candles in the other. He entered the living room and turned the dimmer.

"Hi there," he said to his lovely wife. "I couldn't help but notice you were sitting alone."

He placed one of the candles on the table in one of the empty holders.

"Well, my husband's at work. It happens a lot."

Peter put the other candle in the other empty holder at the other end of the table. As he passed her to the chair beside her, he closed the lid to her laptop.

"Hm. He must be good at his job."

He sat down.

"Well, actually, his partner does a lot of the heavy lifting."

"Oh, really?" Peter said, harsher than he had intended. He looked at the woman he loved more than life itself. "If that's the case I bet it's because your husband is distracted by thoughts of you." Had she not taught him how to flirt? Complement her, he remembered El saying.

"Interesting theory," El replied and watched him with a face that Peter hoped was not as stern as she made it look like.

"Bet his favorite part of the day is coming home to that smile," he mumbled, lost in his eyes. "Wherever he is, he's a lucky man."

Now she smiled.

"I keep telling him that."

He held out the glasses and the bottle.

"You look thirsty."

The smile got wider.

"So that line does work."

"Every time," he assured her. He served her wine. "By the way, I'm Dr. Tannenbaum. Chiropractor. I'm told I have magic hands."

"Okay. Now you're dead." She grinned and he kissed her.


	15. Alex

It was Sunday. Neal thumbed the yellow paper flower he had found on Kate's father's grave that Saturday with Peter. It had been six weeks ago. He had heard nothing from Kate. And nothing from the one who left the origami flower either.

It was time to find out what the message meant.

Obviously she wanted him to take the initative or she would have just knocked on his door. That she had not found out where he lived was unlikely.

Mozzie, who knew who dispatched the flower, had kept a look-out and used his network and Neal knew where to go to find her. It was no time for fashionable, good looking suits. It was time for gray, the color of the invisible. Neal pulled a gray turtle neck over his head and a graphite suit added to that.

He walked to Rockefeller Plaza and put his sunglasses on. Not because it was a sunny, summer's day. It was getting cold and the ice rink had just opened. It was October already. In prison, it did not matter much. Now it felt like time was running away. He had been out of prison for more than five months. He walked around on the promenade around the rink and the numerous flag poles.

Then he spotted her. Alex. She looked as he remembered her. Long dark-blond hair, with a tad of red, falling in natural waves over her shoulder and s sweet face among the curls. She had not seen him. Her full focus was on two young men in suit admiring two curvy young women passing them. Neal smiled.

The two men separated and one of them walked in Alex's direction. Neal stepped in between them and brushed passed the young man taking his wallet and leaving another. The man did not notice anything and a few steps away Neal glanced over his shoulder and saw Alex walk into the same man.

"Excuse me," she smiled "Sorry."

Neal slowed down and let Alex pass him. She got out of sight for the young man who probably missed his wallet by now. She brought out the wallet she took and found Neal's message: her yellow origami flower. Neal mused at her baffled face. She scanned around and saw him. He smiled and made an apologetic shrug. She acknowledged his win.

He walked closer to the rink and guessed Alex would follow. She did. He removed his sunglasses.

"You telegraph your marks," he told her.

"Four years in prison and you're still the best," she sighed and sat on the railing. "Show off."

"Missed me, Alex?" He hoped she had.

"Never thought about it," she replied. "You have something that belongs to me."

She held out the wallet he had left in the young man's pocket. He brought out the original wallet and opened it.

"Actually it belongs to a guy named Joe Nelson. Come on, you're still running that trick?"

They switched wallets.

"Small amusements to keep the day interesting." She beamed and put the wallet in her bag.

"Now, what do you want, Caffrey?" she asked. 'Caffrey'. She was marking the distance between them. So, she had not left the flower because she needed him. It hurt. But Neal did not let it show. He produced a printout of a photo of the music box in amber.

"I need your expertise on this," he said.

"The music box," she said, knowing well what it was. "You're finally admitting you never had it?"

"You got closer than anyone else."

"We got closer," Alex pointed out. "But that didn't work out."

"Maybe it will this time."

"Sorry. I can't help you. I gave up on that a looong time ago."

"Yeah?"

She nodded.

"Then why do you still carry this in your purse?" he asked and held a small golden putto on a short stick.

She took it back.

"It's a piece from the box, right? I knew your mark, remember?"

"Don't fault me for nostalgia. I couldn't bring myself to part with it," she claimed and Neal did not believe a word of it. "I don't know anything more about the music box."

"My number's in here. In case." He gave her the origami flower he had got in return with the wallet. She took it.

His eyes met hers. Once upon a time, he had thought that he might love this woman. Had he ever seen love in her eyes? He was not sure. He had been so young then. And they had never talked about love. They had just had good times in bed. Before he met Kate.

"Good to see you, Alex."

It was an honest line. Neal walked away before she would find a smart remark. He did not want to get hurt anymore by her today.

Peter stepped into the van where Cruz and Jones sat, watching the screens.

"Shift change, boys and girls," he greeted them and pulled his coat off. "What's happening?"

"Nothing unusual," Jones replied. "Housekeepers and staff coming in and out."

"Our insider trader do any insider trading?"

"Oh, he's been a little too preoccupied to make any calls," Cruz snorted. "Rewind the tape, Jones."

Jones grinned and pushed a button and the cars and the people started to rush backward. A taxi stopped outside the house they were watching. Jones let the button go and the world became normal. A man and a woman stepped out of the car.

"That doesn't look like Mrs. Gray," Peter noted.

"Bought a nooner with a younger version," Cruz said.

"Hey, how do you know he's paying for it?" Jones asked. "Maybe it's true love."

"Seriously? A guy that old with a girl that young? Buying her with something," she said, sure of herself.

"When was this?"

"Oh, 40 minutes ago," Jones said.

Peter heard a gunshot.

"Was that on tape?" he asked.

"That was a gunshot," Jones answered, baffled. Well, it was sure not what you expected to hear when their target brought an escort girl.

"Shots fired. Lauren, call up the ops center," Peter ordered and jumped out of the van. As he ran up to the building he found Jones close behind.

The front door was locked. Cruz came jogging after them.

"Backup is on its way," she called out.

Peter put his shoulder to the door and it flew open.

"FBI!" he yelled as he got inside, gun drawn. This was not why he enjoyed his work. He did not enjoy violence or guns. Contrary to Neal though, he did not hate guns. He knew how to handle them as well as the situation. It was of no use to think you could handle a violent situation without being armed.

Lauren and Jones checked the bottom floor while Peter, after an initial scan of the apparently empty hall, continued upstairs.

The next floor seemed empty as well. The staircase ended in the middle of the room, giving him a full circle to guard once he got up. Jones and Lauren joined him and they reached the top of the stairs.

Peter took a left turn and followed the railing to the area towards the street.

On the floor was a man lying still on his back.

"I got a body," he called out to the others. "It's Gray."

He stepped over the dirt from a knocked over flower pot on the floor and sat on his heels beside the man. He placed to fingers on his neck. No pulse. And he was shot in the chest.

He heard someone cry and swung around, still sitting on his heels, pointing the gun towards the source of the sound.

Someone was moving behind the sofa.

"Let me see your hands," he commanded.

It was a woman, the escort girl, crying and terrified. She held up her hands as she moved out from her hiding place.

"He ran out that door," she said, pointing, voice shaky, "right over there".

"Got footprints going out the door," Jones confirmed her statement.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," he reminded the woman. "Backup on the way?" he asked Cruz.

"N.Y.P.D. should be here in a second."

"Check the upstairs," he told Jones. "Tell N.Y.P.D. we're pursuing a male suspect, armed and dangerous."

Cruz cuffed the terrified woman. If she just had witnessed a murder it was a terrible thing to be exposed to, but regulation was there for a reason. They were based on experience and the priority was to keep the situation safe and secure for everyone involved.

Peter took off his suit jacket. When he was about to put it over her bare, shaking shoulders, he noted she had a scratch wound between her shoulder blades. It seemed fresh and as far as he could tell, the girl and Gray had not reached any state beyond talking.

"Here," he said and swept his jacket around her. "All right. Have a seat." He did his best to be gentle to calm her down.

She sunk down on the sofa.

"Tell me your name?"

"Pierce."

"Pierce, can you tell me what happened?"

She shook her head at first, but it was more like she did not want to than she did not know.

"He was hiding in the room when we came inside," she said. "Then the gun fired. It happened so quickly."

"Then the man went out the door?"

She nodded.

"All right. All right." Crying women was definitely not his thing. He turned to Cruz.

"I want you to escort her to the hospital with N.Y.P.D. for review. Try to get a description of this guy." She nodded and led Pierce out.

"Okay, people! Let's round up the staff. I wanna talk to every single person who's been in this house today. Jones, find me Caffrey."

Until now, this had not been one of those cased he had shared with him. It had been quite an ordinary insider trading case. Now that image had changed and Peter had a gut feeling that Neal would find the missing pieces.

Even if it was a Sunday he felt thrilled every time Jones or Peter called him, telling him to come. That meant that it was some exciting trouble they thought he could solve, that they could not. And that made him feel wanted and needed which was an awesome feeling. Though he had preferred to feel the same for a woman and not for the law enforcement he had done his best to avoid contact with for most of his life.

Another thing Neal loved was to flash his consultant ID to the N.Y.P.D. officers guarding the house. He walked inside and up the stairs. It was a wealthy home. Or at least, it was built once by a wealthy person. He turned and saw Peter, walked towards him and halted when he realized what was by his handler's feet.

"That's a dead body," he said as if Peter tried to trick him into believing something else.

"Yup."

It was Sunday and Peter knew he was not comfortable around dead people, even if they were under a sheet.

"This doesn't really fall under my area of expertise, Peter. Murder isn't an intellectual pursuit. I'm not a dead guy kind of guy. So I'm gonna go."

"You got a lot of rules for a guy who doesn't play by them," Peter replied. Neal could bet that there was a smirk in there though he had his back turned and could not tell for sure.

"Yeah." A dead guy is a dead guy, Peter. And you know me, Neal thought. And he knew Peter well enough, too. He would not return to jail for refusing to work around a dead body.

"Aldys Christopher Gray," Peter said before he had had time to reach the stairs. Neal stopped and turned. "Heard of him?"

Neal had.

"Yeah, stock trader. Made a killing in derivatives right before the crash." Peter had caught his interest, no reason to deny that. He glanced around the room. "He has quite the art collection. Maybe this is my area of expertise."

With a quick glance at the covered body, that now had a name, he passed Peter and studied the room.

"We've been sitting on him for three weeks," Peter told him. "Today, he comes home with a woman, possibly an escort. Somebody takes a shot at him. By the time we get here, he's dead, the killer is gone."

No theft? Just an ordinary murder?

"So, what am I doing here?"

"Something's off. What's wrong with this picture?"

"Where's the witness?"

"She's in shock. Had bruises all over her. Lauren traveled with her to the hospital with N.Y.P.D."

Neal passed the body and sat down on his heels by a crime scene toolbox and pulled out a pair of latex gloves.

"Walk me through it, Sherlock."

"Yeah, all right. The witness says that the shooter was already inside."

"This the girl's purse?" Neal asked looking inside a black bag on the floor by a yellow mark placed there by the CSI-team.

"She and Gray came in. There was a struggle. Shots were fired. Gray ends up here. Now I— Are you paying attention?"

Neal was studying the ID card he had found in the purse.

"Yeah, yeah, I can multitask," Neal assured him. He had heard every word Peter had said.

British Colombia, Canada, the ID stated. An existing address, lots of vehicle classes. Not bad for an escort.

"All right. So the witness was doubled up over here in this corner," Peter continued.

Neal found a bottle of acetone in the CSI-kit and walked to a tray with whiskey glasses.

"She said that they struggled and then the guy went out the door. I entered and then I—" Peter halted mid-sentence. Neal saw him glaring at him in the mirror over the chest of drawers he was standing by.

"I'm sorry. Am I boring you?" his handler huffed, hands on his hips.

"One second," Neal replied and dipped the ID into the glass he had poured acetone in. Where the chemical touched the text, it went blurry.

"It's a fake," he told Peter.

"What?" His handler's anger with him was gone in a second.

"The ink hasn't had time to fully dry," he said as Peter took the card. "This is high-end work. You can't get this on the street."

"No, you can't," the agent agreed. "Jones."

"Yeah?"

"Run indices on Pierce Spellman. And call Lauren. I wanna see if we can get a real name off of Pierce. Her ID is a fake."

"Copy that."

Peter froze in the middle of a movement and then walked over to the dirt on the floor where there was a footprint. Then turned to the body. He sat on his heels by the man's shoe. There was dirt on it.

"She used his shoe to make an impression," he said and looked at Neal. "She's not a witness, she's the shooter. No one else was in the room."

She had fooled Peter Burke. Somehow Neal had a feeling, she had been upset and crying. That was something some women seemed to be quite good at when it suited them. And made men like Peter uncomfortable.

"Agent Burke," Jones called as he jogged up the stairs. "Nurses at the hospital took Pierce in for a private exam. Left her alone to undress, she slipped out the back. She's gone."

Neal sighed.


	16. Mi Casa, Su Casa

Peter had not had the best of mornings. It was a morning that broke his regular routines by far. He carried bags and had to take the subway because El had taken the car for her stuff. When going up in the elevator he felt like he filled the whole space. He more or less stumbled into the office.

Neal stared at him from his desk by the door.

"You're late," he pointed out. "You're never late."

"Rough morning. I had to take the subway in," Peter explained. "Know how hard it is to rush when carrying this many bags?"

"Did Elizabeth kick you out?"

Was that his first thought?

"No!"

"Why the bags?"

The kid was curious but Peter did not feel like explaining right now. He was late and he needed to get to work. And he still had things to arrange for the afternoon.

"You ask too many questions," he snapped back and walked towards his office. "Lauren, are you looking up that stuff?"

"On it," she replied.

He met Jones in the middle of the little staircase.

"Jones, are you any closer to finding our missing girl?"

"We don't have much to go on," Jones sighed. "Fake name, no match for the prints found. All we got is a purse. We'll get that from ERT this afternoon."

"All right, stay on it. I want a briefing as soon as it gets here."

At last, he reached his office. He got inside and pushed the door closed. One by one he dropped the bags. He hung his jacket over the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves. Was it warm or was it just him? Probably just him.

He sat down and got to work. He had fallen behind on his emails and some paperwork. He was just about done when Jones appeared outside the glass wall with a box in his hands. Peter waved for him to go into the conference room. As he rose from his chair he saw he had Neal's attention too, so he waved for him to come as well.

"Here we go," Jones said and put the box on the conference table.

At the same time, Lauren entered and put a few pages of paper in his hand.

"Your options."

Neal glanced over his shoulder.

"Hotel rooms? Peter, what did you do?"

"We're upgrading our wiring system," Peter told the kid. It was not easy to keep the mystery around this guy. "Getting the whole HD surround sound put in. El took the dog and the car to her sister's, upstate. Good news is once this is all in place, I can watch a game once the power is back on."

"How long will it be out?" Jones asked.

"Couple of days. Hence the hotel."

"Thompson Hotel," Lauren said as he flipped to the next page. "You wanted a big TV. They have the biggest."

It was big alright. The TV on the image covered the whole wall. What a dream it would be like to watch a game on a screen like that, Peter thought.

"How much is this?"

"Eight hundred and twenty-five with our government discount."

Way beyond his price range. Peter dropped the papers.

"Next."

Lauren gave him the next couple of pages.

"Ridiculous for you to stay in a hotel," Neal said with a concerned voice. "There's more than enough room at June's."

"No, thanks, I'll be fine," Peter replied. He was a federal agent and he did not want to stay in the home of a convict under his supervision. "This one has a pool. I never had a pool."

"Four hundred and twenty-five dollars a night."

No pool then. Just a bed and a TV, how hard could it be? He took the bunch of papers from Lauren.

"Let's go to the bottom of the pile," he said, browsing. He saw a folder with the right image. "Ah. Here we go."

"That one? Fifty-nine bucks."

"Book it."

"Already did," Lauren grinned and left.

"Isn't that the place where you put Neal when he was first released?" Jones asked.

"They have an interesting no-heat policy," the kid informed him.

"I don't need amenities. Just give me a wall, a TV, a bed and I'm happy."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

"Peter, mi casa, su casa."

Neal might be serious and have real concerns for his comfort, but Peter was firm on this. He did not want to be a roommate with his pet convict.

"Su casa is not even su casa. Jones, what do we have?"

"Your options."

Neal peeked over Peter's shoulder.

"Hotel rooms? Peter, what did you do?" Was he about to separate from Elizabeth?

"We're upgrading our wiring system," his handler said and Neal remembered Mozzie pointing out that their wiring was antique. It made him smile that they had listened to his friend's advice.

"Getting the whole HD surround sound put in," Peter continued. "El took the dog and the car to her sister's, upstate. Good news is once this is all in place, I can watch a game once the power is back on."

"How long will it be out?" Jones asked while he unpacked the contents of the box on the table.d

"Couple of days. Hence the hotel."

Hotel for a couple of days? Did the man not have friends?

"Thompson Hotel," Lauren said and Neal saw a photo of a gigantic TV screen. "You wanted a big TV. They have the biggest."

"How much is this?" his handler asked.

"Eight hundred and twenty-five with our government discount."

What had you expected, Peter, Neal thought.

"Next."

Lauren handed Peter another suggestion. Neal glanced at Jones. He had thought that Peter and Jones were friends enough for Jones to offer his couch, but there was no such indication. Well, Peter was his friend.

"Ridiculous for you to stay in a hotel," he said. "There's more than enough room at June's."

"No, thanks, I'll be fine," Peter replied without hesitation, "This one has a pool. I never had a pool."

Neal knew Peter was not that agile when it came to planning and private matters. He was an ace in his work and problem solving but could be immobile as a rock when it came to other things. It was not out of stupidity. It was just the way he was. It had taken the man four months of thinking before he had agreed to Neal's deal, for instance. Four long months where Neal had given up hope.

"Four hundred and twenty-five dollars a night," Lauren said.

Peter dropped the suggestion and grabbed the papers from Lauren.

"Let's go to the bottom of the pile." He browsed and Neal saw a familiar flier. To his horror, Peter grabbed it and said: "Ah. Here we go."

"That one?" Lauren asked. "Fifty-nine bucks."

"Book it."

"Already did." Lauren left with the flier. Neal stared. Peter in that place? If it was not so horrible, it would have been funny.

"Isn't that the place where you put Neal when he was first released?" Jones asked.

It was.

"They have an interesting no-heat policy." The few hours he had stayed there had been quite enough.

"I don't need amenities," Peter assured him. "Just give me a wall, a TV, a bed and I'm happy."

It was not without that Neal thought of prison when he heard that. Not that he had had a TV in his cell, but there was more to a place to stay than what Peter just said. His cell had been cleaner and warmer than a room at that motel.

"Are you serious?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Peter, mi casa, su casa," he tried again.

"Su casa is not even su casa," his handler pointed out. So that was the reason. Or at least one of them. Though they were friends, Neal was a convict and Peter was his handler. "Jones, what do we have?"

Peter sat down and Neal sighed and did the same. The table was covered in evidence bags.

"Okay," Jones began. "These are the items from the woman's purse. Name on the ID is Pierce Spelman. The card's a fake. No record of her prints. We found the gun inside the fireplace. Wiped of prints, serial number filed off."

"Whoever she is, she's good," Neal noted. She had planned ahead and knew what to do to not get connected to a crime.

"That looks like a to-do list," Jones said and pointed at the bag closest to Neal. He picked it up and read the list through the plastic.

"Verify pie, spike RN," he read aloud. Peter looked at the piece of paper too.

"That's an odd list of activities," he said.

"It's a code."

Peter nodded and took the bag and handed it to Jones.

"Get this to the cryptanalyst and then back to me."

Neal saw his favorite pass-time hobby leave his hands. Besides, he would probably do a better job than those analysts.

"I gotta go check into my hotel," Peter said and rose from the chair.

"No, no, no, motel," Neal reminded him. "Motel with an M."

Peter gave him a glare and disappeared inside his office.

"How bad is the place?" Jones asked as he began replacing the evidence bags in the box.

"I prefer my cell in prison to that place."

Jones grinned. Neal rose and helped Jones to clear the table. He picked up the bag with the list and studied it. Elixir PF? Elixir? 'Check' and 'gather' sounded plausible enough but 'elixir'?

Jones harked and Neal looked up. He was waiting for the bag.

"To the cryptanalysts, right?" Neal placed it in the box with the other bags.

"Yeah." Jones closed the lid.

Neal returned to his desk. And wrote a copy of the list.


	17. Casa invadido

Back home Neal borrowed June's scrabble board and arranged the letters according to the list. VERIFY PIE, SPIKE RN, ELIXIR PF, CHECK PEW, and GATHER ML. Then he sat down with pen and paper and tried different arrangements of the letters on each row. He had not come far before there was a knock on the door.

He dropped the pen and rose. The knocking continued.

"Yep. I'm coming."

He opened the door. Alex was outside.

"You're a bastard," was the first thing she said and marched passed him into his home.

"Evening, Alex." He smiled. She had come to him. That was progress.

"I looked into you, Caffrey," she said. "Know your mark, right?"

"Yeah," Neal agreed.

She dropped her bag onto one of his chairs. So she was planning on staying, a while at least.

"You've turned fed?"

"I was forced fed."

"That's funny, Neal." She wandered about in the room as if she checked for someone listening in a hidden corner. "I know it's been a while, but it's still my job to dig up confidential information."

"Occupational hazard?"

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"

"It was a small hope," he sighed. She stood watching him with her arms crossed, expecting more. "Okay. Every now and again they go after some Madoff-type guy and ask me how he did it. Other than that, I barely communicate with them."

"Then why the anklet?"

"They don't like me much. They use the anklet to track me remotely so they don't have to deal with me in person."

"Are you trying to set me up?"

"I'm trying to get something we both want. What did you find, Alex?"

He had told a huge lie to Alex and it was time to steer the conversation away from him and towards the music box. Alex hated the FBI. She would never work with him if he told the truth even if she wanted the music box almost as much as he.

"Want some wine?" he asked.

"No, thank you." She sat down though, and Neal sat down opposite. Her dark eyes studied him.

"Why the sudden curiosity about the music box?"

"I couldn't look for it in prison, but I'm out now. And I was starting to miss you."

Neal had used his darker, seductive voice that he knew worked well when he wanted something. Except for Peter of course. That man could tell right away and got suspicious and unyielding instead.

"Nice try." She picked something out of her bag. The little golden putto. "I tracked down the fence who gave me this. He says there's been a sudden interest in the box."

"Does he know who has it?"

"He still won't tell me how he got this."

"We have to find it before someone else does."

"What's going on?" she asked. "This isn't just about the box."

There was a knock on the door.

"You get a lot of late-night visitors," Alex noted.

"Probably my landlady," Neal replied and called out: "Who is it?"

"It's Peter."

Neal felt his mouth fall open and he closed it.

"Who's Peter?"

"He's just a friend. He cannot know you're here about the box. And we need a cover."

Alex smiled, rose, and pulled her skirt off. Neal watched, stunned and delighted at the same time.

"What are you doing?"

"Why else would I be here?"

Neal smiled.

"Just like old times." He got off his chair and pulled at this tie.

"Neal?" Peter called from outside.

"Coming."

Neal got this shirt outside his pants. He ruffled his hair while Alex took place on his bed.

"You good?"

"Good," she confirmed.

Neal opened the door, ajar.

"What's up, buddy? What are you doing here?"

Peter was Peter. He was not much for subtext. He walked right in, forcing Neal to move out of his way.

"Oh, man, I'm so sorry for barging in, but I—" Peter halted mid-sentence. Finally, he saw the half-dressed Alex. "Oh, I'm really sorry."

"No, no, it's fine," Neal said. "She was just leaving."

The quicker Alex got out, the better.

"No, I'll go," his handler said but was stopped by Alex whose slender, sensual body approached.

"You a friend of Neal's?"

"You can say that, yes." Peter held out his hand. "Peter Burke."

"How do you know each other?" Alex asked, polite, smiling, and Neal cursed to himself and made a gesture for Peter not to tell. Either he misunderstood or had no intention to lie to save his ass.

"I'm an FBI agent."

Neal banged the door shut. Damn Peter! Was that really necessary?

"How's it going?" Peter asked with a grin.

"FBI," Alex repeated, big smile on her face. "Interesting."

Did Peter make an apologetic gesture? Neal made an ironic gesture as if it was okay in return.

"Lovely to see you as always, Neal," she said as she put her clothes on.

"Hey, don't leave on account of me," Peter said as the polite bastard he was.

"Oh, no, no, no. We're done," Alex replied with a tone that said more than he bet Peter heard.

Peter stared at the room. It was gloomier than in the picture. He held up the brochure. On the picture was a TV. On the same spot in his room was an empty holder and cables. Motel with an M, Peter remembered Neal saying. No TV.

He did not have many demands in life. He knew he had his routines and was a guy who loved his home. It was out of necessity he had to move out for a few days. He had accepted it, knowing that as long as he had a bed and a TV he would do alright. Now there was only a bed.

He had barely come this far in realization before a shaggy dog sneaked passed him and took the bed in possession. Peter stared at it, waiting for the owner to come after it. No one came. He turned and scanned down the corridor. It was empty. No open doors either from where the dog might have run.

"Somebody lose a dog?" he called out. There was no answer.

Peter faced the dog. He had Satchmo. He knew dogs. He smiled and took a step close, a hand reached out, to let the dog sniff and get to know him. To let Peter be able to get the dog out and close the door.

The dog was not interested in getting new friends. It barked, rose to its feet, and showed his teeth as if to say 'the bed is mine'.

Peter backed out of the room and returned to the reception. He complained, but there was nothing to be done. He got his money back and then he stood on the sidewalk with his bags in the setting sun.

To his annoyance, he came to think of Neal and his offer. It was not proper. He could not stay with his pet convict. But the chillier it became and the more lost and hopeless he felt, the more he realized that he did not mind that much to sleep on Neal's coach. Neal had not offered him the spot to butter him up. They both knew Peter would be fully capable of cuffing him if needed. What harm could it do to spend two or three nights under the same roof when they spent so much free time together anyway. He had the kid home for dinner almost once a week these days.

It was close by and he walked.

He knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" he heard Neal's voice on the other side.

"It's Peter."

It was answered with an odd silence.

"Neal?"

"Coming."

The door was opened by a tired Neal. Well, it was late but there was still time to watch some baseball. He walked inside, eager to settle for the night.

"Oh, man, I'm so sorry for barging in, but I—" Peter suddenly realized that Neal had not opened the door to let him in. He had tried to block it. And the guy's tie… And what had he said when he opened? 'Buddy'? The kid was not drunk or doped. And the chairs… Two chairs were pulled out from the table. He glanced around. A woman was in the bed.

"Oh, I'm really sorry!" Peter wanted to sink down through the floor. He had never considered the idea that Neal would date. He knew he had encouraged him to leave Kate behind, but…

"No, no, it's fine. She was just leaving," Neal said from the door, still holding it open.

"No, I'll go," Peter said. He had no idea where, but he had no right to burst into the kid's private life like this. He had after all turned down Neal's offer.

"You a friend of Neal's?" The beautiful woman approached with swaying hips.

"You can say that, yes. Peter Burke." He held out his hand and she shook it.

"How do you know each other?" she asked, smiling showing off a perfect set of teeth. He glanced at Neal who made some gestures. So, hence the 'buddy', Peter thought.

"I'm an FBI agent," Peter replied, too tired and too uninterested in lying. Neal banged the door shut in a gesture of disagreement with what he just said. Hopefully, someday Neal would find out that telling a woman the truth was the best way to start a relationship.

"How's it going?" he added to continue a polite conversation with the half-naked woman.

"FBI," the woman with the perfect teeth said. "Interesting."

No follow-up questions. Just a smile and she walked away towards her clothes. Peter made a gesture to Neal to ask if he was okay. He was not sure about the reply.

"Lovely to see you as always, Neal."

"Hey, don't leave on account of me," Peter said, realizing it was more polite than anything practical to say. What he had interrupted could not be repaired.

"Oh, no, no, no. We're done." She pulled the top over her head and it dropped down over her body. Peter noted she moved letters on the scrabble board. Then she took her jacket and her bag and walked passed them without a word. Neal shut the door behind her.

"Nice girl," Peter said.

"Yeah. She's an old friend." Neal did not sound too happy.

Peter dropped his bags and glanced at the scrabble board. F-E-D was pulled together.

"Ah. You've got better-looking friends than I do."

So, the woman did not like Neal working for the feds. It was that kind of old friend, then. He strolled around in the room and found that he had Neal on his heals.

"What about Kate?" Peter asked and walked around approaching the sofa.

"Well, you told me to forget her."

"And you listened to me?"

"There's a first time for everything."

There was a small chessboard in the bookshelf, mid-play.

"Oh, who you playing?" Peter asked and moved a pawn.

"Please, don't touch that," Neal said at once and Peter moved the pawn back. "What are you doing here? What happened to the hotel?"

"Motel," Peter corrected. "And it was occupied."

"Oh, the dog still staying there?"

"Yeah. What's with the dog?"

So Peter had finally realized that he needed more than a bed and a TV.

"Now you understand why I was forced to seek other accommodations."

"Lucky for us," Peter said with a smile that Neal was not sure he liked.

"Us?"

"Yeah. Su casa es mi casa, right?"

"Right…" He had said that and meant it, but now when he had Peter there, unexpected and breaking up an important meeting, maybe delaying the retrieval of the box for months and months, he was not in his best mood to have his handler as a guest any longer.

"Oh, I just got hungry," Peter declared and sat down on the sofa. "Where's the remote?"

Neal realized that no matter how much he loved Peter and how much he would do anything to save his life, he could not live with the man.

"This is gonna be really fun," he mumbled as he walked towards the kitchenette. "Would you like some wine?"

"Beer if you have."

Neal did have a beer. Not because he drank it himself, but because both Peter and Jones did, and life had taught him that is was a good thing to be able to offer something to drink that the guest enjoyed. He even made sure he had of both Peter's and Jones' favorite brands. Neal took the only bottle out of the fridge, opened it and gave it to Peter.

"Have you eaten?"

"No, have you?"

"No. I'll get started right away."

"There's a Domino around the corner," Peter said. "I'll pay."

"No, thanks." Neal opened the fridge again and brought out the ingredients.

"Thought you liked pizza."

Peter had found the remote control and turned the TV on, finding a baseball game.

"This is my home, Peter. In my home, there are certain standards." Whatever subtext Neal had tried to imply on that comment, it was lost on Peter. As he had thought it would be.

"As you please."

"How much is left of the game?"

"Oh, about an hour."

"Good. Dinner is ready in an hour." No way that he would risk that Peter took his plate and sat down with it on the sofa to watch the game.

Peter did not seem too happy about it. He glanced at his preparation by the stove.

"Didn't know you could cook."

Neal grinned. It was not easy to surprise Peter in that department.

"Which chef do you imitate?" his guest asked. What? "I mean, you are a forger. You copy things."

He glanced at Peter, who obviously thought it was very funny. For Neal, it was not.

"Peter, that was crossing the line."

Peter's smile was gone.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"I know."

The irony was that the one reason Neal loved to cook was that it could not be forged. Whatever he did in the kitchen it was his own work. No fake, no trick. To be able to excel in something entirely depending on his own skill helped him feel like something more than a crook.


	18. The hit list

When Neal awoke the next morning he got out of bed and fumbled for his housecoat. Still not fully awake he walked to the scrabble board on the table to get a fresh look.

But the tiles were not as he left them. And two people were talking out on his patio. The fact that Peter had slept on his sofa tonight dawned for him. He turned his head and saw his handler and June eating breakfast, chatting and laughing. He walked out to them.

"Morning," he greeted them.

"Morning."

Peter was up and fully dressed, a real early-bird.

"Did you sleep okay?"

"Oh, I could get used to this," Peter grinned and sipped June's delicious coffee.

"You're in my chair," Neal said.

"Oh, I didn't see your name on it."

Peter had no intention of moving. Neal was not sure how to feel about that. Peter was a guest in his home, but still his handler, and Neal had no way of telling him to move. And Peter used his upper-hand in a quite childish way, in Neal's opinion.

"You guys playing Scrabble?"

"Sort of," June said.

"We're trying to figure out what this means," Peter said and held up a note Neal had preferred to keep away from Peter's eyes. Yes, it had been stupid to take the original list from the evidence bag and replace it with his copy. It was just something he did because he enjoyed the challenge. From Neal's point of view, it was no harm in it. The cryptanalysts still had the same material to work with. But he knew Peter did not look upon it the same way.

"Really?"

"I've seen a code once or twice in my life," June said proudly. "We were playing with shift ciphers."

"Yeah? Glad you're having fun."

Neal walked back inside. Peter was his friend. And he had no problem to offer a friend a bed in his home. But he had not counted on the indisputable fact that Peter was his handler first and foremost. He had missed that Peter would not turn that off just because he was within Neal's home, using his hospitality.

He heard them mumble behind his back and a few minutes later June passed him and gave him a hug.

"Very kind and very foolish," she mumbled.

"Yeah," he agreed.

She left and Neal poured himself a glass of orange juice. Peter came inside. Neal wondered if it was any use to ask Peter to just be his friend when he was within the walls of his apartment but decided against it. He should have known how this would turn out. And it was only for a couple of days. Peter would not learn anything about him that he did not already know.

Peter glanced at the scrabble board holding out the list.

"This is the actual list, isn't it?" he asked, not looking at him. Neal did not reply to that question. It was no need. "You stole from Evidence."

"Borrowed, okay? I made a copy for you guys," Neal said. And he had every intention of returning it. "It doesn't matter. I tried keywords, anagrams, Charlemagne's cipher, Rohans, everything."

"Aldys Gray," Peter said, staring at the board.

"You spelled his name wrong. Aldys is spelled with a Y."

"What?" Neal blinked. Did Peter see something? He walked over to the table and on his notepad was written 'ALDIS GR'. Aldys Grey alright. Peter had seen what he had missed.

"It's a shift code hidden in an anagram," Neal realized. "All right. There are five items on the list. Shift the alphabet 4-by-5 letters. A becomes E, B becomes F." He wrote on the pad as he spoke, clarifying the key. "Reassemble. 'CHECK PEW V' becomes 'ALDYS GRAY'."

"It's a list of names," the FBI agent beside him mumbled, just as baffled as he.

"A hit list." Neal became cold into the bones. A hit list meant that people were about to die and they had a limited time to stop it from happening. It meant that he had someone's life in his hands and it was a little more responsibility than he asked for.

"The dead guy is fourth down," Peter noted. "Let's find out who's next."

'GATHER ML'. Neal collected his thoughts. It did not take long to get the right letters, but a name from there… They moved the scrabble letters around on the board.

"Daniel," Neal said, "but the last name?"

"Cipah," Peter tried.

"Picah?" Could that be a last name? "I can google it."

Peter shook his head.

"Time to get to the office."

"FBI's version of Google?"

"Yep."

Lauren met them when they walked into the office

"Morning. Cryptanalyst called."

"Shift code hidden in an anagram?" Peter asked. The kid had solved it yesterday night, before the cryptanalysts.

"She called you too?"

No. But I need you to pull these names ASAP," he said and handed her a complete list of names. Neal had filled out the first three in the car to the office.

"Nice."

Peter and Neal continued through the office.

"Hey, Peter," Jones called out when they passed him. "How was the hotel last night?"

Damn it, why did he have to ask? Peter stopped, back still turned to Jones.

"Fine. Loud," Peter lied and glanced at the kid. "A bed's a bed, you know?" He gestured for the kid to keep his mouth shut. He made a gesture in return that he thought was something like 'don't worry'. Then the kid turned towards the other agent.

"Peter stayed at my place," he said. "He couldn't handle the motel."

Nice going kid. Guessed he deserved that, ruining his date last night and telling her he was a fed.

"I can handle the motel," Peter protested. "I just prefer tormenting you."

"Mm-hm," his young convict replied and left towards the office. He had said something spot on? It had not been his intention to torment the kid. He had just taken on his offer in a time of need. Peter realized that with him staying at Neal's, the kid never had a rest from his handler's eyes. He reminded himself of thinking of that while he stayed with him. Neal had invited him as a friend, not as his handler.

He grabbed Jones by the arm and stopped him. Hidden from Neal's view he fished out a zip-bag from his inner pocket.

"Jones, do me a favor. I want you to run prints on this." Inside was the scrabble tile F that the young lady in Neal's apartment had spelled 'FED' with. "See if we can find out who they belong to."

"Keep it quiet?"

"Yeah."

The woman had not enjoyed him being a federal agent. And how he had said goodbye to Neal told him that there was more to it than a date ending abruptly. Then it was the idea that the kid actually had a woman in his bed that felt so wrong. Yes, he flirted, but as Neal himself had taught him, flirting was little more than seeing and confirming the other part. Though the kid made the impression of otherwise, Peter still thought Kate was part of the picture. No, the woman in Neal's apartment was there in other business than sex.

Two hours later Lauren knocked on Peter's door and said that she had the info he had asked for. Neal could not help being impressed by her efficiency. Peter and he walked over to the conference room and Lauren arranged her material on a note board.

"So the first two guys on the cracked-code list are Earl Bauen, an oil guy from Texas and John Elga from L.A. Both shut up quick when I sent Pierce's picture. Swore never laid eyes on her."

So they were alive. That was a comfort.

"They're married?" Neal asked.

"Yup. Third guy is Ben Thalen. He's a real estate titan from New Jersey. Two months ago, he claims he was shot during a hunting accident."

With a big smile, Lauren handed Peter a photo of a really small gun.

"With a Seecamp .32 ACP?" Peter asked, knowing his weapons. "That's a good hunting weapon."

"I'm guessing he never met Pierce either," Neal said.

"Right," Lauren agreed. "Speaking of Pierce, we found a set of fingerprints that we think are hers." She handed them a photo each from Gray's living room. "We highlighted the areas where she touched."

There were highlights on all drawers Neal noted at once. And the one painting in the picture.

"She's searching for something. Her prints are over the drawers and paintings. Maybe looking for a safe."

"You think she's robbing them?" Laureen asked.

"Then why didn't she take his wallet or any of the valuables in plain sight?" Peter asked in return, puzzled. "This list is precise. She's looking for something specific."

Five names, five specific names. Peter was right.

"Yeah, she's smart. Appeals to their weakness to get in then takes what she needs."

"But why shoot Thalen and kill Gray?" Lauren wondered.

"Pierce had bruises on her back, right?" Peter asked and she nodded. "She couldn't have done that to herself."

"What? Do you think Gray walked in mid-theft?"

"Yeah," Peter mumbled and opened the Gray-file. "Preliminary tox screens on Gray reveal a mild barbiturate in his system." Peter closed the file and turned to him. "She probably drugged him and then went looking for what she's after."

It made sense.

"Yeah. He woke up. They struggled. She pulled a gun."

"She's not afraid to kill if she has to," Peter pointed out and turned to Lauren. "Who's next on the list?"

"Last one's a local. Fifth and last and single," she told them and handed them a file. "Daniel Picah. He's a trust-fund baby. Family left him a mess of money."

A photo of an ordinary guy with dark hair and glasses.

"Wonder what he has that's so appealing?" Neal wondered.

"Whatever it is, could get him killed," Peter said. "Is he talking?"

There was a slight pause.

"Yeah…" Lauren lingered on the words. "You could say that."


	19. Dan

It had advantages to be rich. An elevator direct to your apartment was really handy. You were let inside on the bottom floor and the one living in the apartment let the elevator take you there. No stops or other people entering on the way.

"We should talk to June about getting an elevator," he said as he stepped out into an apartment which was more like a luxury villa, in a sky scraper.

"Didn't think you're staying that long," the kid replied.

Peter scanned the room as a jolly young man bounced down the stairs from the upper floor.

"Hey, FBI guys. How's it going?"

"I'm Agent Peter Burke," Peter presented himself. "This is Neal Caffrey."

"Not Agent Neal Caffrey?"

"Consultant," Peter said after a glance from the kid.

"What do you consult on?" Mr. Picah asked him curiously.

"Frauds, forgeries, cons," Neal answered and slid away, surveying the room, obviously trying to avoid further conversation.

"Awesome hat trick," the man burst in admiration. "Can you teach me that?"

Peter had to fight a smile. Obviously Neal had put his hat on in his usual manner and got an admirer. He turned to see the kid with a wide, overly polite grin all over his face. Peter saw a gray bust with a fedora hat on that had caught Neal's interest.

"You like that statue?" Mr. Picah asked. "Don't worry. It's real."

The man was intense. Peter was used to dealing with odd people in his work for years and could handle most of them. He smiled politely and looked at the bust.

"He uses a Boaz Vaadia bust as a hat rack," Neal whispered upset. "Do you know how much this bust is worth?"

"I paid four-fifty for that," Dan Picah answered and to Peter's amusement, he saw the man trying Neal's hat trick in front of a mirror. It was not the same when you had to use two hands.

"I can't be here," Neal said and moved to leave. Peter stopped him.

"Mr. Picah."

He put the hat back on the hook beside the mirror.

"Hey, we're friends. Call me Dan."

"Okay, Dan," Peter agreed and hoped that Dan would address him as Agent Burke. "Have you been in contact with any beautiful women recently?"

"Sure. It's New York. I'm dating all the time. Why? What's going on?"

Peter dug in his pocket and produced a photo of the woman called Pierce. He held it out to Dan.

"Well, have you been in touch with her?"

"No, but she's pretty. Should I be in touch with her?"

"We think she might be after something you own," Neal said. "Something… rare."

"I got tons of stuff," Dan said, stating the obvious. The apartment was littered with expensive objects. "What do you think she wants?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," Peter said.

Dan's eyes ran across the room.

"Maybe it's my sword," he suggested, walking past them, pointing at a samurai sword in a stand. "It's a Go Yoshihiro. Japanese, 13th century. Cost me two hundred and twenty thousand dollars, if you can believe that. I love history. Do you like history?"

Peter nodded while Neal left Peter's side and strolled away without replying.

"Silent type. I get it. Do you ever pull your weapon?" he asked Peter. This man was a child in an adult body.

"Yep."

"You shoot anybody?" he whispered like the gun could go off if he talked too loud about it. "Shoot?"

"I've come close a few times," Peter assured him and caught up with the kid. "Hey, we gotta move this along."

"Are you not standing in the same space I am?" he got in return. "Peter, it could be anything. All of this is valuable and completely incoherent." He made a gesture towards his head to show what he thought of the man's taste of valuable items as the only measure.

"Wanna see the rest of the place?" Dan asked, already moving towards the staircase.

"No, I really don't," Neal whispered so barely Peter could hear him and made a gesture with his head towards the exit.

"But we have to," Peter replied in the same way and added in a more normal voice. "Let's go, Moriarty."

He pulled an unwilling Neal along towards the stairs. Peter was totally amused that Neal made more resistance going through a house full of valuables than being cuffed and arrested.

"Yeah, that would be great," he replied to Dan's invite.

"Awesome!" Dan was thrilled and rushed up the stairs ahead of them. "I got four floors. Let's start at the top."

Peter had to give Neal another push to prevent him from returning down the stairs.

That night Neal sat alone in his apartment on the sofa, reading a book where the amber music box was described and complimented with a pen drawing. He heard Peter down the stairs and put the book under the cushion where he sat. He grabbed another book on the table and Peter entered.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Peter was sweaty from exercising. Considering the basketball he had probably found a place to chase it all by himself.

"You want a beer?" Peter asked.

"Oh, we don't have any beer," Neal said. Last night Peter had even drunk the two he had had of Jones' favorite brand.

"Oh, I got some," Peter said and swung the door to the fridge open. "I got us a whole case."

Neal stared. Was it not expected that you asked before you placed something in someone else's fridge? And Peter had bought a label in a can not a bottle. Neal disapproved of cans. It was something about them that made him associate them with drunkards.

The next shock came when Peter sat down next to him on the sofa.

"You're sweating," he pointed out.

"Yeah," Peter agreed with a tired grin, sipping his beer.

"This is a nice couch," he tried to explain. "I don't want—"

"Yeah, it's comfy," Peter agreed and searched for the remote to the TV. Next, the room was filled with shattered noises from some sport event.

"I'm reading here. I'm doing some research."

"Yeah, so am I. I'm reading and researching and listening. I'm multitasking."

Neal got tired of being subtle. He took the remote and turned the TV off.

"Wait," Peter protested. "What are you doing? I— No, no. When I'm in my home, I listen to the game and I look at my case files."

"Too bad we're not in your home."

"Yeah, the power is still off," he grabbed the remote and turned the TV back on. "So we'll have to hear it."

Obviously, Peter considered his work more important than his.

"All right, I'm going downstairs." Neal took his book and rose.

"Why?"

"I'm going downstairs. I can't think. It's too loud. It's like—" He did not find the word for the insane feeling of having Peter in his home not respecting Neal's needs.

He found June downstairs. She must have seen on his face how he felt because poured him a glass of cognac without saying a word. They needed so little to understand each other.

They sat down on the sofa in the magnificent living room.

"Not what you had expected, was it?"

Neal shook his head with a faint smile. He was not sure what he had expected. He just offered a friend a place to stay, as friends do.

"I have never had a place of my own, really," he told June. "Always shared the space with someone, or lived there under a fake name, on borrowed time, you know. In prison, my cell could be searched at any time. Nothing was private. And here, it's the same, and I accepted it without a problem. Why do I feel as my home has been invaded?"

Mozzie often used his apartment without asking on beforehand and it had not bothered him much. But now with Peter…

"Because he takes charge over my home," he answered the question himself. Have someone searching it, was totally different from having someone living with you, taking command.

"As crazy as it may sound," June said after some thought, "I think you should be honored that Peter dares to be himself. He has struck me as one who loves his home, values his privacy. A man like that doesn't feel at home anywhere but at home."

"You're probably right," Neal agreed. It did not help much though.

Peter sat on the sofa realizing he was alone in Neal's home. Something he had never been before. He was a guest and he had promised himself to try not to be so much fed while he stayed with the kid. But still… It was tempting. Too tempting. He placed his file on the table leaned over and glanced at the thick book on the armrest. Doing so he placed a hand on the cushion where Neal had sat.

It was something hard there that did not match the softness of his own side. He lifted the cushion and found a book. He opened it on the bookmark and discovered an image of a music box. Probably the one Kate wanted, the one in amber. So the kid was looking for it, but felt he needed to hide the book from him. Why?

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he barely heard Neal calling his name as the kid ran up the stairs. He got the book back where it was in the last second before Neal burst into the room.

"Go back to the house," Neal said firmly, his reading material still in hand.

Alright, the kid was upset because he had done something. They could sort it out.

"I told you the power's out. I can't go back."

"Christopher Gray's house," Neal corrected him. Peter stared. What now? "The FBI interrupted Pierce's search. She wasn't expecting that."

"So whatever she was looking for is still there," Peter realized and got to his feet. "Maybe we can figure out what Gray and Dan have in common if we go back." The thought of Dan's four-floor home stuffed with items… There was not a chance they could find out what they had in common on their own.

"With Dan," Peter said at the same time as Neal, who came to the same conclusion.

They drove there the next morning and Dan met them with great enthusiasm the second the elevator door opened.

"It's the FBI guys! Hey, welcome back."

"Dan, we need your help with something," Peter said. "Mind coming with us?"

"Awesome! Of course. Let me get my hat." He said the last with an appreciating look at Neal.

Peter exchanged a look with him as the man hurried towards his collection of hats. To Peter's great amusement, Neal took his hat off and turned toward the elevator. He did obviously not enjoy to be a style guru for this guy.

"Let's go," Dan said, with a hat similar to Neal's but did not quite seem to fit on his head.

"Yeah, looks good," Peter said and pattered him on the shoulder.

"Thank you."

In the car, Dan was a fountain of questions mixed with one or two interjections about expensive things he had bought.

"No music boxes?" the kid asked.

"Are there any exclusive music boxes? I thought they were kids' stuff. But I am tone deaf so I would not have much use of a music box even if I found one I liked."

"I hope you don't make much use of that samurai sword of yours," Peter mused.

"Oh, I see what you mean. I buy a samurai sword but not a music box. I can understand that my collection seems just random to you. It's okay. It is, I suppose. But even if I don't use my sword, I know I could, at least in my dreams. But I have never listened to any music that I liked so… Have you never bought anything just to have, to nest your dreams around?"

"No I don't think I have," Peter replied. That was not true. He had. But he had no intention to become familiar with this guy.

"How about you, Neal?" Dan asked.

"What?"

"Have you bought anything to just have to nurture a dream you have, like a samurai sword because you always dreamed to become a samurai?"

"No."

"Com' on guys! Don't you have dreams? Com'on we're friends! Haven't you even bought paint and brushes and a canvas because you dream you would become an artist someday?"

"Neal is an artist," Peter told him.

Dan's eyes become big as plates.

"Wow! You live your dream! That's awesome! I knew you-"

"I'm a con artist," Neal blurted, angry. "I can paint you a perfect copy of Mona Lisa. I forged some bonds that I cashed in for real money and went to a very real prison! How's that for a dream?"

Dan went silent for once and stared.

"Oh, wow…" he said at last. "Does… does he know?" He pointed at him, Peter could see in the back mirror. He had too keep from laughing.

"Peter arrested me," Neal muttered.

"Twice," Peter added.

For once Dan's admiration swayed.

"You can't be that good if you get arrested, can you?"

"He wouldn't be working for the FBI if he wasn't," Peter assured Dan. To Neal's obvious annoyance the man's admiration returned.

Peter stopped outside Gray's house and Lauren met up inside, handing them all latex gloves. Dan pulled them on as if he was about to do surgery.

"Now, listen to me Dan," Peter began and got the man's full attention at once. "A man got killed in this home for an item. We don't know what it is, but it's likely you have the same thing, or something similar. We think the item is still here, so we want you to walk around and see if you can find what it is."

"Okay."

They walked upstairs.

"So this is a crime scene?"

"Yeah."

"That was where the body was," he said noting the white lines on the floor. "Don't touch anything, right? I won't. Just survey the scene."

"Dan, look in every room. It could be anything you have."

"I'll let you know. Hey, Neal, maybe you could teach me that hat trick sometime."

"Yeah, yeah, maybe," the kid answered without much enthusiasm.

"He wants to learn your trick," Peter mumbled to him. "Adorable."

"Don't, Peter."

"No, it's adorable. It's adorable." It really was. "Go keep an eye on him," he told Lauren.

"So, what happens if I don't find it?" Dan asked. "Where are we going next?"

"He's stalling," Neal whispered. "He wants to hang out with you."

"No," Peter objected, also whispering. "He wants to hang out with you."

"No, he saw—"

"Is that fingerprint dust?" Dan asked. "Neal, did you see this?"

"Yeah," the kid answered, probably realizing that Peter was right.

"Okay," Lauren interrupted. "Yeah, let's go check another room."

She led him away, passed them and to the other side of the stairs.

"Okay. You're hanging out with him," Neal told him the second he was out of sight.

"No," Peter said at once. "You're hanging out with him."

"This is your job."

Peter felt a rising panic and fumbled for any argument about that logic.

"Rock, Paper, Scissors?" Neal suggested.

"I'm not gonna play."

"Rock, Paper, Scissors."

Peter sighed.

"This is it," Lauren's voice broke their disagreement. She held a green jade elephant.

"Did I do good?" Dan asked.

"You did great," Neal answered without blinking and took the elephant from Lauren.

He gazed at it and then at Peter.

"Do you know what this is?"


	20. Betrayal

When Dan arrived at the White Collar office with Lauren he was all in awe. He had been home and fetched his elephant and now Neal sent him a smile and showed him to the conference room. Jones and Peter followed and the two elephants were placed on the table.

"Do you know what this is?" Neal asked Dan.

"I guess I don't."

"It's one of the emperor's five elephants," Peter told him.

"There's five?"

"In 1421, ambassadors from all over the world came to China to celebrate the inauguration of the Forbidden City," Neal said. He saw Jones looking impressed. "Upon leaving, the Chinese Emperor, Zhu Di, gifted them each with a treasure."

"They were subsequently stolen and reappeared in the United States in 1901," Peter continued. "They were broken up and sold individually."

Neal touched one with his fingertips. It was amazing. He had never held such an item in his hands before.

"This is imperial jade. Each statue on its own is relatively valuable. How much did you pay for yours, Dan?"

"Eight hundred thousand, if you can believe it."

Neal could. It was probably a low price, too.

"Yeah, combine one with the other," he said and hooked the trunk into the other's tail, as they were designed, "you just doubled your price. Link them together and they're worth between 150 and 200 million fenced in the black market."

"To us, priceless piece of our history." A man stepped into the room. He was Asian, in his forties, with a tailored suit and silk tie. He was followed by Agent Hughes and three men and a woman that probably belonged to the guest's entourage.

"Agents," Hughes said as they all rose from their seats. "…and Neal," the senior agent added. Neal sent him an eye. At least he was included, he thought. "This is Daichi Yoshida of the Japanese Embassy."

Neal greeted the ambassador in Japanese and bowed. He saw the man was delighted.

"You are the ambassador of awesome," Dan whispered behind his back. Neal felt oddly proud of Dan's praise.

"Don't encourage him," Peter returned.

"We are not interested in the monetary value of the statues," the ambassador continued, looking at Neal as if he was the one to address in the room. "We'd like to bring them home."

"The Japanese government has filed a claim stating the statues were stolen from them and illegally imported to the U.S." Hughes informed them. "We're cooperating in the efforts to restitute them to their proper ownership."

"And we thank you, Mr. Picah, for turning over your piece." The ambassador and his four employees bowed and Dan bowed so he almost knocked his forehead to table. Neal was glad the man did not protest. After all, he had only bought the elephant from his home, not agreed to return it to Japan without compensation. Neal was not sure he would agree to part from that fortune for a bow.

"See? I did good," Dan mumbled and Neal realized he was awestruck that the ambassador honored him with a bow.

"You did good, Dan," Neal agreed and pattered him on the shoulder.

"We can finish this discussion in my office," Hughes said and gestured for them to leave the room. As they did, he turned to Peter.

"It's very important that we recover the missing pieces of the set here. We don't want an international incident on our hands."

Peter nodded and the victory they felt before seemed subdued. He closed the door and faced them.

"Can't recover any of these pieces until we find out where Pierce is."

"What if we know who her next target is?" Neal grinned and nodded towards Dan. Peter got the point and seemed to like the idea. Dan was not stupid. He returned the smile, but it was obvious he was not sure if he ought to. Oh, Dan, you'll have memories worthy of so much more than an elephant when this is over, Neal thought.

Peter sat by his desk and search for a phone number in what seemed to be an endless list of numbers. Was it even possible to talk on the phone so much? Did the man ever sleep? He had probably not overrated himself when he said he dated all the time.

"Hey, Peter, you got a sec?" Jones asked.

"Just going through Dan's phone logs again. No contact with Pierce," Peter said. "Lauren is still going through his computer?"

"Yeah." He took a step into the room and closed the door behind him. "Listen. I got that other info you asked for." He returned the scrabble board time and Peter pocketed it. Hopefully, he could return it without Neal noticing it.

"Her name is Alexandra Hunter," Jones continued and handed him a thick file. He opened it. The face on the mugshot was familiar, but it was not an American mugshot.

"She's a high-end fence," he read aloud. "Deals mostly in Eastern European antiquities. Only been arrested once in France, but all charges were mysteriously dropped."

"Checked with a former buddy of mine in the DA's office," Jones said. "Just to see if he'd heard of her. All he'd say is she has powerful friends." Did she? Interesting, Peter thought. "Anything else?"

"No, thanks."

"All right."

Jones left the office as Peter rose with the file in hand. He turned towards the window. A high-end fence and Neal. He had a horrible feeling about this. Had the kid stolen something under his nose? Had he been tricked? He so much wanted their relationship to be what it seemed, without falsity.

His office door swung open and Lauren rushed in.

"I got something," she said and placed a laptop on his desk. "I've been going through all of Dan's online dating profiles."

"This guy didn't play college football," Jones grinned when he saw the profile.

"Yeah, he's not a doctor either," Lauren mused.

"He changed his profile picture to include the hat," Peter stared. It was even a little on the side, as Neal wore it. "It just gets more adorable." Jones returned his grin.

"Pierce thought so too," Lauren said and clicked on an image of interested ladies. Peter knew that face too. "She's so desperate for the jade elephant she winked at him last night. Left her phone number. Belongs to a prepaid."

"Now what? Shall we arrange a meet? Move in for an arrest?"

"No, our evidence is too circumstantial.," Peter sighed and sat down. "Hughes is concerned we don't have enough to hold her. And she'll disappear with the jade for good, which will not make the Japanese happy."

"Which will not make Hughes happy," Lauren added. Had Hughes made the impression on Lauren that his mood was more important than a Japanese diplomat, Peter wondered. They needed more on Pierce. But they had a bait.

"I say we send Dan in for one hell of a date."

Lauren and Jones stared at him.

Neal sat by the bar, waiting, wearing Dan's hat.

"Daniel?" he heard a woman's voice behind him. He turned and saw Pierce. "You look different in your profile picture."

"Pleasantly surprised?" he asked.

She smiled.

"No."

She turned to leave.

"Stay," Neal requested. "Stay just for one drink. I promise you. It's worth it."

She had stopped and watched him. Her eyes narrowed. He had made her curious.

"Another Ketel One on the rocks, please," he asked the bartender as she slowly made her way back to him. "Thanks."

"Who are you?"

She did not sit down.

"I'm the guy who set you up," Neal replied. "The FBI was sitting on Christopher Gray's house because I tipped them off."

"And why would you do a stupid thing like that?"

"So I could get to these first." He pulled out a photo of the two jade elephants.

"You got Daniel Picah's. How did you get to it so quickly?"

Suspicious more than impressed, Neal noted. He shrugged and smiled.

"Dan just needed a friend." That was the truth alright.

"I take it you don't approve of my methods."

"I think there are smarter ways of getting what you want."

"Well, it's different for a man. You should be grateful for that luxury," Pierce said. "I have to work with what I've got."

Neal sighed. It was the twenty-first century and this woman still felt she had to use her beauty instead of her brains?

"Slightly jaded perspective," Neal answered. "Excuse the pun."

"I don't think so. I have a lot to work with."

She smiled as if she flirted with him. Neal was not overly impressed. He had met men with more charm and nicer appearance than this woman. But he was not there to discuss men versus women. There was a van outside a block away who was listening and he could almost hear them yelling for him to move ahead.

"You do have something I want," he said.

"And how do you propose we solve that?"

"Team up," he suggested. "I got two, you got three. Separate, we're worth about two million. That's not bad. Together, we're worth two-hundred million. Which, if you're bad at math, is significantly higher."

He overstated the value some, but considering the Japanese interest, it was not completely impossible that they were actually worth just that to them.

"I prefer to work alone," Pierce cut the chase short and left.

"Then enjoy your two million," Neal called after her. He turned back to the bar and pushed her drink to the empty seat beside him. It did not take long before he saw her hand take the glass.

"So you are good at math."

What a relief.

"You underestimate me."

He smiled back at her. A few more minutes and Peter could walk in here with Jones and arrest her.

"Miss me, Caffrey?"

Neal felt a chill. He had not stated his name to Pierce, but this could go bad.

"What are you doing here, Alex?"

He could see she was angry. Please, please, Alex, don't! Neal thought.

"I don't see you for five years. Within minutes of waltzing back into my life, I've got the FBI checking up on me?"

"This is another setup," Pierce said and left.

"No, it's not," Neal objected and hurried after her.

"It stings when someone messes with your job, doesn't it?" Alex was not done yet. "FBI ran my prints. That's bad for my business."

"It's not what you think, Alex," he tried before he ran after Pierce through the kitchen and outside.

She left on foot. He caught up with her easily.

"Not much of an escape route."

"I'm good on my feet."

He grabbed her arm and pulled her close.

"I want the jade. You're not going anywhere without me."

"It's just like a man to think he knows everything."

She smiled and glanced across the street.

"Help!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Please, he's attacking me! Help, he's attacking me!"

She started to twist and turn in his grip and he tried to hold on to her.

"Get your hands off her!" he heard a voice and saw several strong men approaching.

"Very clever."

She grinned.

"I work with what I've got."

She pulled free and ran.

Then the men were over him.

"Hey! Hey, wait. I think there's been a misunderstanding," he tried. "She's crazy."

They were not listening and he was seconds from getting beaten up by three robust men.

"FBI!" he heard Peter's voice. "Let him go! Let him go."

The men were reluctant to do so, but at least they did not beat him.

"He was attacking a woman," one of them said.

"All right. I'll take it from here," Peter said with authority and the men let him go.

"Thank you so much," Neal told them. "Thank you." No matter how pleased he was to see that there were men willing to defend someone under attack, it was mindless to beat the attacker.

"All right. All right," Peter mumbled and grabbed his communication radio. "Lauren, got Neal. Pierce disappeared into the crowd."

"Did you see where she went?" Peter asked him.

Neal stared at him. Unbelievable!

"No. I was a little preoccupied with the guys closing in to kill me." Peter did not look pleased. "Cutting a little close there, huh?"

"We weren't expecting your girlfriend to show up," Peter barked back at him. Neal frowned. How could Peter know? They had not seen her. And Peter did not know the name of the woman who had been in his apartment.

"I know about Alex," Peter told him.

So Peter had checked up on her. It was Peter who had run her prints, causing her to be furious. Peter had not even asked him who she was. He had not given him a chance to tell him. He had checked up on her right away. Peter had betrayed him.

When Peter heard from Lauren and Jones that they did not find Pierce he became furious. Not only had they lost a murder suspect, but Neal had also been the cause of it, too. He marched towards the car with the kid.

"She disappeared again. What the hell happened back there, Neal? What was your fence doing walking through the operation?"

His pet convict glared back at him.

"What were you doing pulling her prints?"

Was he upset about that? Peter felt he had no reason to defend himself. Neal was a convict and he was the kid's handler.

"What, I welcome you into my home and you run a file on my friend?" Neal continued, with an accusing tone. Peter sighed. This was exactly the reason he had not wanted to stay with Neal. Why had he not spent a few more bucks for a decent hotel? With an 'H'.

They stared at each other across the roof of the car.

"You can't trust me?" Neal asked. "After everything."

The kid was hurt. Peter felt a sting of bad conscience. But he was too angry to back off and apologize.

"You tell me. I know you're looking for the music box. Maybe you're looking to pawn the jade too. You let Pierce walk? Playing your own angle?"

All his worries spilled out uncontrolled with his anger.

"There were three of them, Peter!"

And Neal was not violent. He could barely handle to defend himself from one package of muscles.

"You shouldn't have let her go," Peter insisted. The kid knew he had his back covered, that he would be saved. And Neal had said that he trusted him.

"You know what? You think what you wanna think," Neal said. "I'll walk from here."

"Where are you going?" Peter yelled at him as the kid started to leave. He was outside his radius!

Neal turned and glared at him.

"Home," he said. "Something you don't have right now. If you don't trust me, check my anklet."

"I will!"

Neal was already walking away.

"Do it," he replied over his shoulder.

Peter got inside the car. He stared out the window at Neal's back until he turned a corner and was out of sight. Then he realized that he had nowhere to spend the night. Neal had withdrawn his welcome. And the worst of it was that Peter knew he could not blame him.


	21. Too much history

Neal walked home, hurt and angry. Peter had checked up on Alex. When he had seen she was a fence he had drawn conclusions simply based on the idea that the man he was working on daily was a criminal and therefore not to be trusted. It hurt to know that Peter even considered him to steal those elephants.

He wanted to yell at him that if he ever stole something again it would not be connected to his work. Not because it was less fun but because it would harm Peter. For him, it was the most obvious thing Peter could relay on.

Neal bit his lip when he remembered the list he had copied and then stolen. It was things like that he had to stop doing. They were harmless to him, but to Peter, they were proof that he had a long way to go before he was to be trusted. The agent was so blind sometimes, so uncompromising.

As he walked up the stairs to his apartment he decided to pack Peter's things, put them outside the door, and then lock it, just in case Peter missed that he had been thrown out.

He swung the door up and found Pierce sitting at his table, pointing a gun at him.

"You found another gun. Good."

"Hello, Mr. Caffrey," she greeted him.

"How did you find me?"

"Your friend let your last name slip at the bar. I did a little research. Come in. Sit," she gestured with the gun at a chair by the table. "Shut the door behind you."

Neal banged the door shut with the hope to arouse June.

He walked over to the table. She was still dressed for a date. She had kept her coat on at the bar, but under it, she had a dress showing off slender legs and skin.

"You always break into places dressed like that?"

He sat down and tried to ignore that a gun was pointing at him.

"Where are the pieces?" she asked in return.

So she did not know the FBI had them. She too thought he was fooling them.

"Gave them to a friend for safekeeping."

"Take me to them."

He had no idea where to go but he could figure something out on the way.

"Okay."

He was about to rise.

"Wait." She stopped him. He looked at her and waited. She held out a sturdy pair of scissors. "We won't be taking your tracking anklet with us, Neal."

He sighed. As if he was not in enough trouble already. If Peter did not believe him before he would even less if he cut his anklet. He pulled up the leg of his slacks.

"As soon as I cut this, an alarm is triggered. Response time is five minutes."

"So let's be quick." She grabbed her coat hanging over the back of her chair.

Before he had time to cut it there was a knock on the door.

"Neal?" June's voice. He looked at Pierce. "Neal?"

She rose and he did the same. She gestured for him to go out of sight by the sofa.

"Okay. You speak a word and she's dead," she mumbled.

He sat down on the sofa, cut the anklet, and used the open circuit to open and close it to send a message in Morse code. Peter would definitely check his tacking data. With a bit of luck, he would hear or see the signal. He just had to take that chance. He overheard Junes worried voice and Pierce assurance that everything was fine. He did not think for a second that June bought anything of what Pierce was saying. They said their goodnights and she closed the door.

He held up the anklet.

"Tick tock."

"Let's go."

Peter sat by his desk and tried to ignore that he had nowhere to sleep tonight. He would find a hotel for the night, but he felt like an abandoned five-year-old on the thought that all the things he needed to feel comfortable were at Neal's place. He did not want to go there to collect them. He could of course since Neal had no legal right to keep him out, but Peter felt he had been just enough of federal agent for Neal to handle today.

Lauren rushed into his office.

"Neal cut his anklet."

Peter felt himself get cold all over. Neal's actions were his own responsibility but deep inside Peter knew that it was he who had placed the kid in a spot where he considered running a better option. Damn Neal, always so impulsive, he thought.

"Alright," he focused. "The marshals will be at Neal's place by now. Call them and ask them to drive June over here."

"June?"

"His landlady. She might know something that can help us."

Lauren nodded and left. Why had he cut it? It did not feel like Caffrey to cut the anklet to run with the jade. It felt too… sloppy. Neal did not steal for the money. If he was after the jade it was for the fun of it. And stealing something under his very nose would be a challenge fit for the kid alright.

He walked over to Hughes' office.

"Neal cut his anklet."

Hughes sighed. He took his mug and rose.

"You seem surprised," his boss noted.

"I am."

Hughes rounded the table.

"Well, I am not. It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"Reese, I—"

"I know you have a special relationship with Caffrey, and I respect that, but now he has cut his anklet and is a fugitive and we must act accordingly."

"Of course," Peter agreed.

Hughes walked passed him with his mug, aiming for the coffee machine. Peter followed. He saw June sit with Lauren and Jones looking at photos.

"All right. Pull every alias Caffrey has. Hit the airports and the waterways. We can't let him escape with the jade or the Japanese are gonna be very, very upset."

"I don't think they ran together," Peter objected. "Neal knows better by now."

"Peter, he set Alex up as a fence for the jade," his boss said with certainty. "And he let Pierce escape tonight. Caffrey put every damn thing in place."

Hughes focused on getting coffee. Peter stood with his hands on his hips, frustrated. He was sure there was more to this than met the eye. Why could not even his boss see beyond Neal's label as a criminal.

"Peter."

He turned his head to June, who had come up to him without him noticing. She looked him in the eye.

"We both know he didn't run," she said with certainty.

He nodded. Yes, Neal had not run. He had been hurt and angry, but he had not run. Something was up and he did not know what yet, but he would find out. And he would find Neal before the marshals.

June left and Lauren held up the photo of Pierce. June had identified her.

"Pull Neal's tracking information," he told Lauren and Jones. "I wanna see everywhere he went this week."

Five minutes later they gathered in the conference room around Lauren's laptop.

"Where do you want to start?" she asked.

"Today. He got angry today. Let's see if that leads us somewhere. Let's start at the bar."

Lauren made a search and the dot appeared on the map on the address of the bar.

"That's Neal at the bar tonight," she said.

"Just let it play." The time ticked on. "All right. That's us walking to the car. That's him deciding to walk instead." Peter sighed. Neal had walked straight home. That he had checked with his app on the phone already. "Can you fast forward it?"

Lauren clicked and the dot rushed to his home and stopped there.

"That's him at June's house," she said.

There was some pinging sound, the dot went orange and then disappeared.

"So Caffrey cuts it here," Jones said. "Go back to yesterday."

"Wait, wait, wait," Peter said. "What's that flickering at the end?"

"A short circuit when he cut it?" Lauren guessed.

"Play it again."

Lauren backed in time and played it at normal speed. Peter knew what he heard alright.

"That's not short circuit. That's Morse code."

He stopped and backed and played it at half speed.

"'Power'," he said and felt a great relief for the message. Neal had not run. "I know where he is."

And they had no time to lose.

Neal did not have a key to Peter's house, but he had noted where they kept a spare key once, many years ago when he had hanged around to learn more about Peter's habits. Since he had picked the lock when he intruded for their breakfast, Peter probably did not know that his pet convict knew, and he hoped the man of regular habits had not found a new place for the spare.

To his delight, the key was still under the flower pot. He unlocked the door and walked inside with Pierce close behind. She turned on a flashlight.

"My buddy's upstate," Neal told her. "Cuts the power when he goes." He flipped the lamp switch and the room remained dark. He flipped it off, but he got an idea and left it on. "It's the perfect hiding place for the jade." He continued inside the living-room.

"Where are the pieces?"

"He told me he put them in a drawer."

He walked towards the chest of drawers by the kitchen door.

"Hey!" Pierce called out. "You think I'm stupid?" She pointed her gun at him and he backed away. "Stay back where I can see you."

She started searching the drawers. Neal very carefully pressed the button to 'on' on the radio on and then turned the volume up. He hoped Peter had got his message. Then the FBI would get there and they would turn on the power before getting inside.

He backed towards the TV and did the same thing.

"Where the hell are they?" Pierce asked, aiming both gun and the flashlight in his direction.

"He swore to me that they are here, okay?"

She left the drawer and came closer.

"Don't play with me, Caffrey."

It was no funny feeling standing in front of a gun in the first place. When the one holding it was prepared to use it to kill him, Neal had to fight panic.

"Hey, hey, I want this thing over just as much as you do. All right?"

All he could do was try to keep her calm, find somewhere else for her to search. He took a step towards a cupboard, but once again she urged him to move and she sat on her heels to look inside.

"They're not in here, Caffrey."

"If he said they're here, they're here. We just gotta keep looking."

Please, Peter, come and get me!

She raised her gun.

"Please!"

For being a bureaucratic authority the FBI could move with an amazing speed when needed. Peter stood in a municipal van with Jones and Lauren and the team leader of a troup that would bash into his house.

"We can't get eyes inside," he reported. "It's too dangerous to go in blind."

"What if I give us a flashbang? On three, we turn on the power and we storm the entrances?"

"What'll happen when the power comes on?" Lauren asked.

"I don't know," Peter admitted. "But I'm trusting Neal." He had led them there, and he knew they were not likely to rush in blind.

"Okay," Jones agreed. "Let's get the battering rams ready."

"Are you insane?" he asked Jones. "That's my house. I've got keys," he showed the team leader. He nodded and they left the van. Ten men in FBI-jackets and automatic rifles sneaked up towards his house. Half of them began to jog around the block with Jones to get up on the back of the house.

Peter got up the stairs in front of the team. He peeked inside. He could not see anyone. Maybe light from a flashlight.

"Ready?" Lauren asked over the radio.

"Anyone knocks anything over, they deal directly with my wife."

"Copy that," someone answered in his ear-piece. "Ready?"

"Wipe your feet," Peter mumbled to the men who stood on the staircase.

"Ready at the back door."

"On three, the power's going on," Lauren said over the radio. "Ready? Here we go. One."

Peter unlocked the door as soundless as he could.

"Two."

He backed away, leaving room for the armed vanguard.

"Three."

The front man banged the door open at the same time as the light in the room was turned on and music on high volume roared.

Peter got inside last and saw that also the TV had been turned on. In the middle of it all stood Pierce, confused, with her hands raised, one with a gun and one with a flashlight. Jones yanked it away from her hand and the flashlight fell to the floor as he pulled her hands on her back.

Peter turned down the volume on the radio. He had been tricked by this woman. She had been such a convincing victim. If she could fool him, then so could Neal. Did he? Was he conned by the young man, as some tended to believe? He scanned around in the room for the kid.

He stood smiling, relived in the outskirts of the room.

"Welcome home," he said.

This young man had trusted him to come. He could not believe Neal would trust his life to an FBI agent unless there was honesty in those eyes.

Jones took Pierce outside to a waiting car and the troops dropped off. As they did, Hughes walked inside.

"Good thinking, Caffrey," he said as he watched the young man. "And I'm glad you didn't run. We do however have a problem," he continued and his eyes turned to Peter. "The marshals outside think he did."

Peter felt his temper rise, but it was of no use. They did their job.

"I can vouch for that he didn't run."

"I'm sure you can. And I'll support you. But right now he's without anklet, and it's in the middle of the night."

Neal had done a great job and Peter was not about to let the marshals take him back to prison because of it.

"Reese—" he began in protest but his boss held up his hand.

"Just take him to our own holding over the night, we get the anklet back in the morning, sign the papers, and we're back on track and no arguments."

"No, I—"

"Peter, he's right," Neal interrupted.

He stared at the kid.

"What?"

"It's what you're expected to do. And it's okay. I don't want you to get in trouble because of me."

Peter was flabbergasted and exchanged a look with Hughes. It was not without that he seemed a bit amused in his serious face.

"As Caffrey said, you'd better do your job. I know you don't like it Peter, but one day you may want people to be sure they can trust your judgment when it comes to him. Don't undermine yourself."

Peter sighed. He knew they were right. The kid had cut his anklet and caused quite a stir. He produced his cuffs and Neal held out his hands.

"I'll inform the marshals," Hughes said and left.

Peter locked the cuffs around the kid's wrists without a word. He guessed they should both be grateful that the marshals did not insist on belly-chain and transport to prison instead.

When Peter had driven back to the FBI's headquarters with Neal in cuffs he had remembered that he had no place to stay for the night and mentioned that his house still did not have any power. The kid had just grinned at him and said that Peter could stay at his place.

"After all, I won't be kept awake by you talking in your sleep tonight."

How could the kid be so positive? Now when he stood in Neal's empty apartment it did not feel right. The kid was locked up for the night and he stayed in his home after he had run out of welcome. Neal did not hold grudges so maybe he was forgiven, but he lay awake a long time on the sofa.

The next morning he got to the office early and made sure every paper was ready for Hughes' signature when he got to there. Hughes signed them without argument, made a phone call, and cleared Peter to get Neal out of the holding cell. He walked down to Jones' desk with the fixed anklet and asked him to go down and get Caffrey out.

"What did he do now?" Jones smirked.

"He didn't do anything but help us catch Pierce," Peter said. "The rest is just bureaucratic nonsense."

Jones got serious and nodded. He rose and took the anklet.

"I guess we all need a reminder that he's still a prison inmate from time to time."

"We might," Peter agreed. "But Neal got a night in jail as a reward for a good job done. Now go get him back here."

Lauren came in with a box as Jones walked out. She grinned.

"Got them."

They arranged the five elephants on the conference table. An hour later Daichi Yoshida, the Japanese ambassador arrived with his entourage.

"Where is Neal?" Peter asked Jones.

"He wanted to go home first, change some clothes."

Pity he was not here now, but it could not be helped.

Hughes and Peter guided the ambassador inside the conference room. Mr. Yoshida watched the five elephants with awe for a long moment.

"Thank you. You have done a great service for our country," he said and bowed.

"It's our pleasure," Peter returned and bowed.

"Indeed," Hughes agreed. In the door on the way out his boss pattered him on the shoulder. "Good job, Burke."

Peter stopped and faced the senior agent.

"Couldn't have done it without Caffrey." Neal deserved every credit he could get for this.

He walked down the stairs and saw that the kid had returned and was entertaining the ambassador's entourage in Japanese. Peter made a slight bow to them and they returned it, but then he was lost in what to do. He did not want to offend them.

"Excuse us," Neal said and left the group "She negotiated the jade for a four-year sentence?" he hissed to Peter and added in a normal voice when they were further away from the group: "I got four years, I never killed anyone."

No, it was not fair, but Neal had not had the key to a diplomatic crisis to bargain with.

"Guess what she had to work with is better than what you had."

Peter noted that the three Japanese were gazing at him. He made a little bow and they return it, smiling.

"Why are they looking at me?" he asked Neal.

"It's nothing. It's nothing," the kid assured him and dug in his pocket. "Check this out." He unfolded a paper. "The Saito Hotel. Look at that TV." It was big and the room looked marvelous. "Thanks to our goodwill with the ambassador, I've arranged for you to stay there."

Peter blinked.

"You're kicking me out?" He had hoped that the kid had forgiven him.

"No! No, no. I just thought you could watch the game on that TV tonight. It's yours for the rest of the week."

How many times would that kid run him speechless? He had just used his wit and charm to get his handler - his tormentor - a marvelous hotel room.

"I have to go back to your place and grab my bags."

"What kind of friend would I be if I made you get your own bags?" Neal rounded his desk and carried Peter's two bags to him. He had even remembered the basketball. "You're all set."

Peter took the bags. Neal threw him out alright, but without wanting to cause any bad feelings.

"Is this because I ran Alex's prints?"

Neal smiled. He was not cross at him.

"It's for so many reasons, Peter."

The kid handed the basketball over. They were just two friends who had tried to stay under the same roof and found out it did not work out but still wanted to remain friends. It could have been far worse than that.

"Thanks," Peter said, touched and happy.

"Anytime."

"Not this time, Neal." Alex grabbed his wrist as he tried to seek an origami flower inside her purse. She took the flower. "Those have lost their charm for me. What are you doing here?"

"I thought we could start fresh. Go back to the beginning."

"You and I have too much of a history to start fresh, Neal."

"I'm sorry," Neal said, looking into her deep, brown eyes. "I should've been honest with you."

Alex smiled.

"I know better than to trust you."

"Likewise," he agreed. "I'm willing to take a leap of faith."

"How willing?" she asked in return. He was not willing to put that into words so he just returned her gaze. She smiled. "I know where the music box is."

This was too easy. There must be a snag.

"Where?"

"Well…" she put the flower in the breast pocket of his coat, "as long as you're working for the FBI… You'll. Never. Know." She pattered the flower, jammed in the pocket.

"Oh," Neal protested, "come on!"

Alex walked away.

"Sorry, Neal."

He watched her leave. She did not fake it, of that he was sure. She would not walk away just for him to call her bluff or offer her anything. He worked for the FBI and she would not come close as long as he did. Alex was not impulsive as he. She had patience. She would wait until his sentence was over in more than three-and-a-half years if that what it took.


End file.
